Every Bitch For Himself

By Andy Seven

It's 1978, and Hollywood Boulevard is burning with punk rock energy and with it the advent of career criminal Big Jason Gulliver, an amoral monster in silver hair, torn t-shirt and army fatigues. Big Jason plans to knock over Rocket USA, the most popular punk club in town, using his friends who all work on the inside of the club.

Standing in his way are three psychopaths who run Rocket USA: Jack Sterling, owner of the club, a has-been television star with severe OCD; Chuck Steakhouse, punk surfer thug with a capacity for rape and torture; and Miggy Sanchez, a thug every inch the equal of Big Jason in amorality.

Every Bitch For Himself captures all the energy of the 1978 Hollywood punk scene with episodes of violent rock & roll, perverse cult rituals, and nightmarish parties. Just as punk rock bands twisted old songs to fit its explosive style, Every Bitch For Himself corrupts old film noir scenes culled from The Killing, The Asphalt Jungle, Born To Kill and The Killers, to name a few, to create a new punk rock crime novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 11, 1999
• ISBN: 9781483533902

Book preview

Rebecca

Chapter 1ne

Every Bitch For Himself

12:45 PM. Union Station, Los Angeles. A tall man in his twenties with a torn t-shirt and Army boots strode out the front entrance of the train station with a grip in his hand looking around for an automobile. He fetched dozens of stares with his full head of silver hair, an almost artificial silver paint tone of hair. His name was Big Jason Gulliver. He quietly cussed out of his long, thin face which looked like the craggy side of a mountain. Fuck!

Holding his temper, he stomped over to a phone booth and plunked two dimes in, racked the dial seven times and waited.

Hello?

I'M HERE PICK ME UP YA FUCKIN' CHIMP! barked Jason and hung up.

Jason stoically stood at the curb waiting for his ride when a sleek Mercedes Benz convertible slowly cruised by, piloted by a middle-aged man with feathered hair, aviator glasses and a dark moustache. The Bee Gees were whimpering a disco song out of his car radio. The driver appraised Jason, who simply snorted two times and then hocked a huge sluice of green loogie just barely missing the expensive auto. The driver frowned and sped away in a huff.

HONKHONK!

HEY FUCKER! yelled a thin blonde out the window of a dirty and dented 1974 Chevrolet Vega.

Finally! Jason yelled back. You were supposed to be here already. Some homecoming, asshole!

BBIIIIIGGGG....JASON! Hahahaha! Get in the Shit Box!

Jason piled into the Vega, which made a point of making the loudest screech, tires burning the asphalt, earning everybody's attention.

1:00 PM. Alan Wrench drove the Vega going west down Sunset Boulevard, popping in a cassette of The Vibrators, screaming YEAH!YEAH!YEAH!

Big Guy! Good to see ya back! What the fuck?

Good to be back from Frisco.

How was San Fran?

A lot of pot smokers, ehhhh, even the punks smoked dope, it was lame. All the bands there thought they were like Richard Hell or some shit. A lot of poetry, a lot of art shit.

That sucks, Bubs. Bet you're glad to be back!

Yeah, back in LA. Got some big plans, too...what's that fuckin' smell?

What? What smell?

It's like something's cooking, you know, burning Crisco, like a bad breakfast, Jason wrinkled his nose.

It's the Vega, Buddy. Burns oil like crazy and smells like a horse turd.

Jason picked up a red licorice whip in a bag and it was melted into a weird shape. He chewed part of it and gave up. Alan Wrench's face lit up.

Hey! Did you hear the news? Sack Face died last week, OD'd on some bad junk, probably cut with rat poison or some shit. Found him in a puddle of piss with his face looking bluer than the Scientology building.

Sack Face died? No shit? Anybody tell his Mom?

Not me. Fuck that noise!

Wrench wheeled the car over to the curb, making another screeching stop.

Welcome back!

Jason leaned over to Alan. Can you get the guys together tonight? I've got some big plans. Money making plans.

Sure thing. And we can have a little send-off for Sack Face in style.

Big Jason smiled and winked. Set it up for me, willya?

Big Jason and Alan Wrench got inside an apartment that had beat furniture, an open Murphy Bed in the corner, singles, albums, and punk clothes strewn all over the floor.

He's here! Wrench yelled and raced off into his bedroom.

Jason is that you? a girls' voice yelled from the kitchen.

I smell bacon and eggs. Is that for me?

A tall, thin girl with dark skin ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had short, spiky black hair with bright red streaks shooting through.

No! This is for you! she ran over and kissed him in a tight embrace.

Enough with the kisses. How about the food?

Not ready yet. How was Frisco?

It was damper than a baby's shit pants. Too many fat fuckin' punks, too. They oughta drop and do twenty.

Hahaha, Jason. You're a fuckin' card! laughed Raquel Tequila.

Raquel Tequila wasn't Latina at all, in fact she was high yellow and her real name was Selma Franks. Her resemblance to Raquel Welch and her fondness for eating only Tortilla chips and drinking cheap Thrifty Drug Store Tequila without throwing up earned her the name of Raquel Tequila. She had the most intense pair of hazel eyes and they were virtually hypnotic.

While Big Jason shoveled the food down his maw Raquel smoked a cigarette and kept ruffling his hair, delighted it was painted electric silver with black streaks.

BJ! Who did your hair!

Now don't call me BJ unless you're planning on doing it!

Shut up, Jason! she laughed, punching him in the arm.

You took down The Clash photos and put up some Weirdos and Dickies pics. Cool!

Yeah, I'm not too hot on The Clash this week since Mick Jones grew out that hippie hair.

Poseur, he blurted and gulped a glass of Hawaiian Punch.

Raquel took a drag of her smoke and brightened up. Hey, did you hear about Sack Face?

Yeah. Sack Face died. Maybe we should put up a collection and raise something for him.

Don't bother. Lily made an anonymous phone call to the cops and they picked up his body.

Lily? She still working at the club?

Yeah, she even pinned a note on his chest with his parents' phone number on it.

Jason chortled. Accommodating bitch.

3:00 PM. Jason Gulliver sprawled out on a bench in the laundromat watching his clothes spinning around. He looked around cautiously, leaned over his army fatigue pants and reached down to his ankle, feeling for the Colt .45 strapped inside his army boot. A little Mexican boy ran up to him and stared at his silver hair, making Jason straighten up and pull his eyelids down making a monster face. The boy ran away frightened.

Jason tapped his foot nervously, humming We Got The Neutron Bomb to himself, wishing he had that melted licorice whip on him now. A buff punk in paint splattered jeans and cowboy boots came in snapping his fingers. He had a forked out thatch of brown hair with the back and sides of his head shaved off so that he looked like Fred Flintstone.

Jace! Back from Frisk!

Robotman! Sit down, fag! Jason pushed some newspapers with Jimmy Carter's face on the front page out of the way.

Robotman jerkily sat down and twitched a little. Long time, man. Doin' your wash?

Never mind that. What are you doing for money these days?

You know I'm still working at the club.

Ah, fuck that, there's no money in that shit. I have a way we can kick up some serious scratch. Are you with me?

Fuck, Jason, I'm your man, you know that. What do you have in mind?

I'll tell you and the guys later. Your brother still a big gun collector?

Yeah, that dick loves his guns. Even sleeps with one under his pillow.

Jason nodded his head, thinking. Good....good...you still with Crazy Dahlia? Don't call her that, it's just Dahlia, she's a cool girl.

No she's not and look down your pants every once in awhile to make sure you still have your balls attached if she hasn't ripped them off yet.

Aw c'mon, Jason.

I'm calling a meeting at the club tonight. Get there about tennish and don't squeak a word of it to Dahlia, understand?

Alright, Jason, don't get pissed. Robotman got up and jerkily stretched himself. Gotta return the car, Dahlia needs it, see ya tonight.

Robotman dashed out of the laundromat, snapping his fingers again. Jason chuckled bitterly. Pussy whipped.

Peering around the corner of a washing machine was the little boy looking for more horrifying faces. Jason ignored him, threw his head back and closed his eyes. The little boy made a pistol with his right hand and pretend shot at him.

Chooooooshhhh!

Chapter 2wo

Money Doesn't Talk, It Swears

9:45 PM. Big Jason Gulliver woke up from the sofa all covered in freshly washed t-shirts and socks. He scratched his short silver hair while he watched Allen Wrench walk across the room drinking soda from a straw sticking out of a huge thermos.

Fuck! I just don't get it. You play drums, you're a fuckin' mechanic and you're still skinny as fuck. How do you manage not to put on any muscle?

Beats me, Jason, Wrench sipped manically from the straw fixing him with an intense stare through his glassy eyes.

Ready?

Yeah, got the car all warmed up. Called all the guys, we're meeting at the shop.

Jason got up and punched his chest three times like a gorilla. Solid.

10:00 PM. Three punk guys milled around by the gate in front of a garage, two smoking and the other kicking cans around the sidewalk as Wrench and Jason pulled up in front. The sign behind the gate read, MOTOR MAGIC - FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC AUTO REPAIR.

Hey, hey! a thin guy in sharkskin pants and brightly painted shoes with a black tank top raised his arms up and smiled.

Big guy! a redhead with a floppy horse's mane of hair running down the center of his head flicked his cigarette into the gutter and lifted his leg like a dog trying to pee on Jason.

Don't pee on me, fucker! Jason threatened.

Allen Wrench carried his car keys over and unlocked a big, cartoon padlock in front of the gate. He threw open the gate and a German Shepherd bounded out from a sea of sick cars, some old, some new, some dirty, some spotless, the dog barking his head off and charging like a bat out of hell.

BOWOWOW BOWOWOW BOWOWOWOW!

Stand back, you guys. I'll put Shitbreath away in the ladies' room, Allen led the dog away by the neck. The dog turned his head periodically growling at the boys and belched out a short bark to let them know he meant business.

You hear that, boys? Stay out of the Powder Room or Shitbreath'll bite off your balls.

Where you been hiding, Jace? The red head asked. He was known around town as The Fireball Kid and gained his notoriety working the door of Rocket USA, one of the most popular clubs in Hollywood. He usually let girls in free and waved a lot of underage guys through, as long as they promised not to tear shit up.

Been hiding at your momma's house, ya fuck, and thank God her cooking's better than her fuc-

Shut up, asshole!

Is that fucking dog gone? The thin guy craned his head towards the rest rooms behind the garage. Christ, I hate dogs. Got bit when I was a kid. Hate em!

The thin guy in the sharkskin pants was half-cast with clear blue eyes and had a short cropped head of curly hair dyed platinum blonde, almost white, that made him look like a black Paul Newman. His name was King Steve. Of course his looks drove the girls wild.

His real name was Steve King, but when everybody found out he hated being called King Steve it sort of stuck on him. He also worked at Rocket USA as a bartender. It wasn't a hard job because the club only served beer and wine and didn't want to pay for a full-blown liquor license. All King Steve had to do was pour wine from a jug - cheap generic crap, of course, or pop open bottles of beer. A very easy gig for any young man to handle.

Robotman also had his name messed with, it was really Bobby Mann, revamped to Robert Mann to Robotman, also named because of his jerky, twitchy movements. He didn't disappoint, jerking his legs quickly into the garage grounds.

C'mon, that dog's gotta be gone by now, Robotman scratched his armpits and marched in. The rest of the guys fell in and followed. Jason had The Fireball Kid's head in a Full Nelson headlock and rapped noogies on his skull, laughing like a maniac.

Wrench came around the garage and unlocked the office, turned on the light in the garage and pulled out a twelve pack of Budweiser and threw them to his friends. Everybody sat back on shop stools and oil barrels and guzzled away. Jason sat in the center of the shop.

Alright, three of you guys work at Rocket USA. How are you guys getting by?

King Steve looked down sheepishly. Well, you know, we get our fair share of beers, scammable chicks, shit like that.

No, I mean how are you guys really getting by there? Fair share, fuck. Are you getting your fair share of scratch?

Robotman laughed. Fuck no, you know that.

Jack Sterling pays us every two weeks. Sometimes the checks even bounce, The Fireball Kid banged his beer can against a case of 10W-40 Valvoline oil.

How about that shit. Steve, what's the take on a weekend at the club?

Club capacity's about 1,600 to 2,000 kids on a good night. Cover's about $7.00 on a weekend. All the Valley and Orange County fucks move in to score, so Fridays and Saturdays usually sell out. Even Thursday nights do killer business if the bands are happening.

"I'm not big on math