Excerpt from Novel "My Megalomania at Midnight" introducing the Brother Redd© 2006, 2014 only $1.00
The
Setting and Mood: News reporter “Take
a look at this eye of Hurricane Katrina. If I were an artist I couldn’t draw
this any prettier.” A weatherman is very excited and it reminds me of a barracuda
on a blood trail. He’s trying hard not to smile or be amused off of the misery
of others. But hell, he can’t help but shine and why not revel in his own
moment; a moment when weather forecasters are actually taken seriously. I see
him also interviewing his peers who get to have all of the fun, right? They can
stay and play in the rain while towns’ folk are legally ordered to evacuate.
And the highways and interstates are filled up with cars moving at a snails
pace, overheating and breaking down. These roads resemble a clogged up blood
vein; industrialized city shock induced heart attack.
Excerpt: Brother Redd in a nasty bar
John gets in just
fine. Not me, I’m stopped by a six feet beer belly over his pants, stained
tanned off white tank top wearing door man.
“Wait a minute.”
He’s staring at my attire. I immediately realize I’m wearing an ACDC “Highway
to Hell” t-shirt and tight leather pants, with spit shined shoes on.
“Hey boy, hey BOY;
you look mighty fine in dem’ jeans.” Oh great.
“Naw, I’m just
fucking with you. Go in der’ an have a good time,” he chuckles.
John quickly
became a member of the residents of the land that time forgot. This is
unfathomable. Rednecks are screaming, “It’s a family tradition.” They are
surrounding a caged stage. A stage that had been torn apart. Apparently, the
musician on the stage had ordered them to do this. That’s what I hear from two
of em’ playing billiards.
“Alright!
Al’ight.” He’s on the mic now. “Calm down ya’ll, we got one more for ya’ll.”
That’s the living legend, Redd, and he’s on the stage. What is this about,
“Boys In The Woodz’ mutha’fucka’s!” And the crowd goes as he starts with the,
“These ain’t streets ya’ on boy.”
“Woo
hoo boy’z in da’ woods!” Finally, there’s John, I see him wobbling, sticking his
neck out at the bar and he’s slinging his beer everywhere. This act is followed
by the crowd throwing their beer around.
Someone then
pushes me from behind. Damn, it figures that some Neanderthal redneck would
come and pick a fight with me in front of his sister /girl friend.
I
turn around and there is Chuck. His eyes are blood shot red and he’s got that
spaced-out look. Yep, he’s high as hell. “What’s up Biag’chth!” He exclaims.
Before I have a chance to interrogate, he’s got his arm, around my shoulder and
he’s dragging me off to a bar.
“Man,
I met this guy.”
“Calls
himself Mr. Fame, right?” I interrupt.
“Yea,
how did you know?”
I
kept thinking about those words “Dude it’ll be super kewl.” Now I feel like the
roles have been reversed. Now he’s so high that he’s all enthused about a
façade of fame. So enthused that I don’t have the opportunity to get a word in
about how much danger we both could be in.
Chuck’s attention is toward girls
wearing daisy duke cut off shorts going up their split ends. They are seated on
their construction workers shoulders, lifted their tops and exposing their bare
nipples to Redd. That catches Chuck’s and my attention.
“Woo,
get the sin out your pocket!” In his authentic redneck draw-then Redd catches
our eyes on him.
“Chuck,
jeeze’ sweet Loh’rd we got the best musician from the coast with us tonight.”
Redd exclaims.
“Get
me a chair hot damn! Get me a chair! Hot damn! It’s time for a Baptism.”
Chuck can’t resist the temptation.
Few minutes later he’s unloading some bluesy riffs over Redd’s ranting.
We’ve both seen
Redd do this act before. He sits a member from the crowd on a chair in the
middle of the stage, gets em’ a shot of whiskey. Then he starts saying some of
his own personal takes of Reddism (personal evangelism) over the shot to
Baptize it.
Next he’ll pass a shot to his band
mates. They’ll join in,
“I here by bless this shot by the flock of
Reddism.”
“How
has Reddism improved your life, honey?” he asked one of the chicks that has on
a skin tight pink t-shirt.
“It’s
made me free.” Then down the hatch she takes that double shot of Absolute
Vodka. Excess drips down her blouse.
Chuck’s
got that Fender Strat talking some delta blues rip off riffs-The crowd is
eating out of Redd’s palm too. He looks back at Chuck like he’s gonna’ tell em’
that his time is up. But as soon as Chuck stops, a few opposing screams come
from the crowd,
“Let em’ play!” spreads to the
front. One of Redd’s band mates are passing around the bottle of Vodka. Chuck
takes a long gulp before he belches on the microphone.
“Well
folks, this is the last un.’ Mutha’ fuckin’ East Bound Down!”
Charles
breaks into the Jerry Reed’s classic:
“We
gonna’ do what they
Say
can’t be done
Got
a long way to go
and a short time
To
get there…”
Saw em’ from my bar stool enter in
like an old Western movie. Fist has on a full length trench coat. V-Chip has on
a cheap secretary’s outfit. It is amazing to me how quick this chick molds
herself. Mr. Fame has on this all white business suit. I watch V-Chip say
something to Fist like, “Fist, you know.” He replies, “With pleasure.” With
that he pinches one of the women on the ass who was dancing w/her construction
worker husband. Before the husband has a chance to say “Let’s take it outside,”
Fist hit him with an uppercut to his stomach. It took about ten seconds for a
bar room brawl to start. In the diversion, V-Chip walks up to the bartender,
puts a 45 automatic pistol in his mouth and demands to get the money that Redd
is getting tonight for the gig. The poor bastard replies that it’s all in a
large jar on the stage. Then V-Chip boldly goes on stage. Redd stood in her
way; so she kicks him in the nuts. And when he’s hunched over she hits him in
the back of the head with the pistol. The whole move took about five seconds.
Then she whispers in his ear, “If ya’ gots’ the ballz’ redneck, meet us in
Midnight Mississippi in twenty four hours. We won’t be hard to find.”
Excerpt: The Pursuit
a Buddha shaped man sits in the back room of a
country bar in the middle of no where. He’s surrounded by his band mates:
Catfish(solo guitarist), Abnormal Norm (bassist) and Simmy(drums).
“GOD
DAMN’T SOMEBODY’S GOT TO PAY! WHERE’S MY FUCKING REVOLVER?! WHERE’S MY
WHISKEY?!” Catfish, resembles a short fatter greasier version of Antonia
Banderas, passes an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. Redd takes several huge
gulps, as if it’s only water. Then he lets out a sigh and bellows, “Yea we
gonna’ get the Flock on their ass.” Now that he’s calm, he takes his cell phone
out of the inside pocket of his apple red sports coat.
Redd
keeps the conversation short and sweet, “Round dem’ boyz’ up. Bizz’ness’ bout
to pick up. Gonna’ be a showdown at Mid Night.” He does this type of
instruction on twenty more calls.
A few minutes
later, after a little bit of meaningless laughter due to smoking some back
woods creeper weed, he’s loading his 357 revolver and dropping every other
round. Thuds and sharp scratching sounds echo as the rounds hit the off set off
white tile floor.
The
self-proclaimed living legend, Redd is leading the pack. Now about five
automobiles are following him while he drives his off white eight cylinder 1984
Ford truck, he refers to it as “the silver bullet.” He’s keeping in constant
communication via CB radio. He’s got Hank Williams Jr. “A Country Boy Can Survive” playing
loudly in his tape deck, turning up his whiskey. It’ll be another ten minutes
and he’ll have to pull over to shake off his double vision and to check with
Abnormal Norm to ensure that he’s headed in the correct direction. Also he has
to wait on the last member of his entourage, PLUMBER PAT.
Plumber Pat and Redd became real
good buds in high school. Pat grows his
own home grown creeper weed up in Saucier and does plumbing work on the side.
Indeed, there are places in Mississippi
that no man, woman, or child should ever travel through. Mr. Plumber lives down
a road that has junk all lying around. It very much resembles a land fill, with
Pit bulls propped every fifty yards. It’s rumored that a policeman got killed
down there when Pat gotta’ hold of him and fed him to his dawgs’ (dogs). No one
came looking for him either. Pat stands a lil’ over six feet and weighs bout’
three hundred and forty pounds, purely a nasty son of a bitch.
Brother Redd and
his entourage made a pit stop at a greasy coffee house. The staff was just
about to go home. They’re using the weathering prophecy of doom as an excuse.
But due to the fact that twenty people had just shown up; or perhaps it was the
fact that each of them offered a ten dollar tip they were encouraged to stay
open.
Redd sits in the middle of the
table; like this is a redneck version of the Last Supper with pots of coffee coming in a steady stream he didn’t
even care to hide his Holy water in his flask. He takes it out from his inside
jacket pocket. “Imma’ get that stoopid’ bitch and her goons!” Because of his
drunkenness he had to be driven here so he wouldn’t get lost or get into a
wreck.
His name is Bruno.
It wasn’t the fact that Bruno didn’t like to party, oh no, it’s the fact he
knows exactly who V-Chip is. And he also knows how much of a profit could be
turned from this fiasco. He figures she is up to a major power move.
Bruno gave Redd his prowess one day
while they were drinking one too many and snorting that country cocaine “grits”
at a house party. Bruno, being a famous guitarist around town, started putting
a couple power chords together and Redd was spouting off what ever came to his
mind. Wasn’t too long after that when Bruno put together Redd’s line up; at
first it didn’t fly because it was the wrong scene; it was a crowd of college
kids looking for some bubble gum pop remedy. But when Redd found his niche, in
hole in the wall dank red neck bars, it didn’t take him long to build up a fan
base of two or three hundred on the coast. Then it spread and the self
proclaimed “Living Legend” spread to more towns east, west, and north. Got his
own website and started promoting CD’s underground.
Bruno
sat on the good side of Redd. On his Judas side sat this cat Bowers. Bowers
found his way in the music game by being a fan of what ever was playing on the
local scene. Then he started cutting riffs and rearranging party tunes with a
fake white boy trying to be gangster façade. Examples are his version of “Gin
and Juice” and “The Humpty Dance” and the crowd, most of the time, would see
through the fakeness. To save the poor boy, Redd would grab the mic and Bowers
would resume playing his bongos.
At
the other end of the table was Plumber Pat, he intimidated the whole staff just
to ensure the cops wouldn’t be involved. The other members around the table
were from his band and die hard fans.
Bruno
unfolds the map and he’s explaining where they are exactly; yet every one knows
this is a town that might as well not have a name. It’s like so many other
towns in Mississippi (“MISSIMEMISSIFREE”)
called Dedeaux Town ,
Ladner Town ,
or Smith Town
Comments
Post a Comment