E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-62287-506-1
Verlag: First Edition Design Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
The young Indian had thought when he started his punk music career. He had left his shaman past behind him forever. Yet his mystical history catches up with him with a vengeance when a number of spooks try to attack him. This includes 'The infamous Bloody Benders' and a notorious C.I.A. doctor among others.
Outnumbered and outwitted, our Indian punk is ready to leave this haunted facility when a kindly preacher intervenes. The deceased reverend gently persuades him that his medium gifts may still have an important part to play in his church's holy war.
Johnny is conflicted. What should he do? Take up the faithful cause? Help some nursing residents find their way home or run out while he still has a punk musician's life? At minimum wage, what can one nurse's aide really expect to do against the howling forces of evil anyway?
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
PROLOGUE Music is king. “You haughty little Injun . . .” Make no mistake, people. “When I get my hands on your grimy little red skin, Johnny . . .” It is what gives us the courage to get up in the morning. “I’m going to rip off your head, and spit down your throat!” It provides the needed oil for our sad little machines. “Then, I am going cut off all your tribal feathers, and shove them right up your ass . . .” It is the sacred prayer we say to each other before we go to bed each night. “. . . Just to watch you explode!” And if music was king, citizens then surely punk rock was the everlasting God to which it bowed down to. That music had an intensity like no other. In a land of ersatz imagery, it rose head, and shoulders above the rest of the garbage. Yeah, in the good ole oppressed U.S. of A, where the white people were hypocrites and their television was phony, where everything was all about money. Where all the supposedly great rock groups were preaching a pretentious love, punk rock saw right through the dreadful unhappiness of life itself. It spoke rightly when it said the emperor had no clothes. Yeah, punk stripped away everything to the raw bone all right. In fact, it was the only thing that was completely real in this insane world. When all is said and done, it had a rage, a nihilism. It is what got you through the long night. While everything else was just counterfeit snake oil, this was the real manifesto for life. For that truth and that truth alone, it was worth dedicating oneself. Mercy, it was worth facing down an entire angry rabble. Speaking of which. . . “Are you listening to me, Injun? Are you listening? Unbolt this door right now!” I opened my eyes, and stole another peek through the drapes of my little control room window. My red-faced station manager, a big burly man, named Dave was pacing madly outside our radio station building. Around him, a small lynch mob was growing in the gravel parking lot. The establishment was raging on my doorstep, and I did not even care anymore. I was too overcome by a feeling of elation. So, this is how our AIM leaders felt like at Wounded Knee, I thought. “God damn it to Hell, red man, open this door this instant!” Mind you, unlike their mighty feat, my tiny exploit had not exactly focused national attention. Still, all in all, it had been a pretty good coup for one little Indian brave. I had just pulled off perhaps the greatest caper of my miss spent youth. I had spent the entire night playing nothing but underground music on a 10,000 watt radio station. This was as close as God-awful Kansas came to pirate radio. “Are you listening to me, Johnny, you crazy savage? Are you listening?” I drew the last drag out on my cigarette, and snuffed it out in my ashtray. Calmly now, I flipped on the toggle switch on my antiquated radio board. “And welcome back, friends, you’re tuned to the great rock sounds of JINX, in Clifford, Kansas, my name is Johnny Thunder, and that was a terrific little song from a little known group called the Psychedelic Furs that you just heard. But hey things are mighty getting quiet around here.” “Things are going to get mighty loud around here, Injun, if you don’t unlock this fucking door!” “. . . So let’s pump up the volume again with this little ditty from the Ramones called ‘We want the Airwaves, Baby.’ ? I was still spinning the record into place when there came this tremendous pounding at the main door. For a second there, I flinched at the banging sound. Steady boy, I thought, steady. It was Dave your station manager himself who placed those reinforced steel doors on the building. For some reason, the old guy was always so paranoid about commie subversives taking over his radio station. Too bad, he had forgotten to card his little Red Indian. I slowly cranked up the Ramones to drown out the sound of their fascist pounding. As the vibrant strands of rock’n roll filled my ears, I could not help myself. I got up on the record counter tops, and started to pogo. “We want the airwaves, baby, and we want it now!” ? Oh yes, I smiled. Joey’s lyrics were just so perfect. Like me, he was just an eagle waiting to soar. Mind you, I had been employed with the radio station for just under two months now. At the time, filling in for the regulars, on the weekend nights seemed like the perfect job for a lowly reservation kid like myself. The safe haven until my punk band finally got its own act together. Yet as time wore on, I found myself growing more and more frustrated with my DJ stint. It was not just the phonies who ran the sales office. I had seen their fake types before. Their B.S., I could handle. No, it was their constipating play list. The obscene thing made me want to scream. My God, I mean just how much Reo Speedwagon, and Journey could one person possibly take in one hour? It literally hurt my ears. I kept begging Dave, the station owner, to let me play more current hits. For cryin’ out loud, I pleaded, at least let me jettison John Denver, and take us into the eighties. Nope, nothing doing, the old man told me. Just read the weather all right son, and leave the important programming decisions to us. And smile, don’t forget to smile. Remember, they can always tell if you are happy on air. Sweet mother of God, it was like the Billboard top forty was their friggin’ bible or something. I finally snapped one day, when Ralph, our obnoxious snot nosed programmer, came up to me. That little son of the station owner told me in no uncertain terms that we were planning to do a Barry Manilow tribute weekend . . . a revolting Barry Manilow weekend for God’s sake! What can I tell you, I broke down right there, people. I wept like . . . some child. I beat my red chest in despair. It was too much to ask of any sane human being to play that miserable lounge lizard. It was like kissing Nancy Reagan on the mouth. No worse, it was like making love to her right there in front of Ronnie. From that moment on, I vowed to do something about this sorry state of affairs. I did not care anymore. Even if it got me fired, I was going to do something for the sacred cause of music. That very next weekend, I quietly bided my time. After waiting for the last salesman to pull out of the parking lot at night, I hastily went about hauling my own batch of new wave records into the building. I had no sooner barricaded all the doors than I donned my faded leather jacket, and a pair of old sunglasses. Feeling human again, I awaited for the tender stroke of midnight. Then, I announced to the world that we were on mission. JINX, our great local radio station was going to kick up some dust in this cultural wasteland. We were going to see just how many great underground bands we could play before morning. I got to tell ya, people. From the first time that needle cartridge landed on my albums, it felt like pure heaven to me. God, but it felt so good to be free at last of their AOR straitjacket. For the next two hours, I played it all. Patti Smith, Split Enz, U2, you name it. If it was illegal by traditional radio standards, likely, the song was on my turntable. I can tell you right now. I was on the absolute high. It was better than any drug that I have ever taken. My radio audience’s reaction was slightly different. The first hour of my little tribute show brought a lot of puzzled phone calls from folks. No one in this hick county had ever even heard of this kind of music before. Some people really liked what they heard. A couple of hippies in the Milford trailer park actually dug my punk music. Even said, they were going to go out, and buy all the albums. A lot more of the older generation felt threatened, and called in to complain so. By the second hour, I finally shut off the phone, and pushed on with my gauntlet. Whatever happened now. I was determined to make it to dawn. Come hell or high water, at least for one night, the people in this small county were going to hear some decent music. My happy reminiscing was suddenly cut short by the sound of my programmer’s pipsqueak voice. I could just hear him above the noise of the pounding on the door. “Hey, did anyone think to try the circuit box behind the station?” “Good thinking there, Ralphie, we can shut down the source of this Injun’s operation right now.” “”No Ralphie,” I shook my head forlornly. “I would not try that.” A painful scream soon emanated from the rear of the building. Little Ralph, I surmised, must have discovered that I had left the ground off the circuit breaker box. I smiled, and to think my old man thought my electrical wiring class was an incredible waste of time. “You little savage,” Dave’s voice roared. “Young Ralphie just burnt his hand! He’s going to have to be taken to the hospital! Just wait until I get through these doors, mister! We’re going to string you up! We’re going to lynch you but good!” I did a Latino dance around the...
