Shocker 2: Love Gun: Shocker, #2

By Armand Rosamilia and Frank J. Edler

The second installment in the SHOCKER trilogy continues.

Vito "Shocker" Shocketti is on a mission to find the only woman he's ever loved. His long, lost son is tagging along to help find her. The Baby Jesus told them to. After being locked away for thirty years, Shocker finds his worst enemy is time. He's unleashed upon a world that's moved on since he was locked away. There are cell phones, internets, digital apps and no hair bands on the radio. Worst of all, every rock club he ever claimed as his turf is nowhere to be found.

Shocker 2: Love Gun is the story of a man out of time, a boy and his father and the woman they both need in their lives. Shocker and his son, Manny "Dirty" Sanchez must face the worst this new world throws at them to reunite their family. Under the ever watchful eye of The Baby Jesus they carry around in a backpack they stand a fighting chance to reunite their family.

But the seedy underground boss, Gonzo, and the limitless cadre of monsters at his disposal will stop at nothing to put an end to the family reunion.

Armand Rosamilia and Frank J. Edler return with their leather pants, cut open shirts and cases of hair spray to continue the tale of the badass long hair from New Jersey, So gas up the IROC, crank up the tape player to 11 and throw up them horns for the next part of the story that's sure to make your eyes bleed!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rymfire Books
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9798201753610

Book preview

SHOCKER 2: Love Gun

Armand Rosamilia and Frank J. Edler

©2016 Rymfire Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the authors.

This book is dedicated to everyone who was rocking out on a hot, sweaty Saturday in August at a club somewhere in New Jersey circa 1986.

Shocker 2: Love Gun

Chapter 1

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Baby Jesus poked his head out of the backpack like a rotten little mutt some rich bitch bimbo was using as a fashion accessory. I pushed his head back down like he every chick who tried to come up for air while she was going down on me. It was bad enough someone might recognize me or Dirty Sanchez sitting here at the Rio Diner, but they might really freak if they noticed two escaped convicts paling around with the baby Christ shoved into a ratty old JanSport backpack.

Granted, our supernatural escape from death row at Rahway State Prison got about as much attention as a fart in a hurricane, but I was still uneasy about stopping at the Rio for some eats. Dirty, however, felt empowered by Baby Jesus batting for our team. So far, he had been right. No one batted an eye at us and the radio and television news reports didn’t mention a thing about a prison break. There was a very real possibility we were going to get away with this prison break scot-free.

An ancient waitress came to the table to find out if she could get us something to drink to start with. I told her I wanted coffee. Dirty told her to get lost. His attention was not on beverages but on the outdated tableside jukebox mounted at our booth. He flipped through the cards, browsed the offering of songs that had probably not been updated in the past quarter century.

Gimmie a quarter! The words exploded from his mouth like unexpected diarrhea. They’ve got W.A.S.P. on this thing! Wild Child! Is that a good song?

It was all I could do not to reach across the table and smack his young uneducated ass, Is it a good song? That is quintessential W.A.S.P. That is Blackie and Holmes at their best. Not the best song they did but fucking mandatory to listen to whenever you play W.A.S.P.

Gimmie a quarter! Gimmie a quarter!

You don’t know shit about these things do you? I asked him.

Yeah I do. You put a quarter in. Punch in the number of the song and bang your fucking head off!

Yeah but you get more bang for your buck if you load it up with quarters. Look. I pointed to a sticker affixed next to the coin slot. It indicated one song for a quarter, six songs for a dollar and twenty plays for three dollars. Plus, I know a little trick to get it to play all night long for us.

So, hook us up! Dirty said. He was bouncing in his seat like a five year old dosed up with sugar.

Where the fuck do you think I got a dollar? I didn’t exactly maintain a piggy bank on death row.

The zipper on the backpack unzipped itself again. I readied my hand to push Baby Jesus’ head back down again but his little apple fist popped out. It was holding a stack of quarters. I held out my hand and his fist dropped the quarters into mine and then waved like he was Thing from the Addams Family and shit. I was beginning to dig having Baby Jesus around all the time.

I told you  he’s got our backs, Shocker. You need to relax. We’re not on the lam, we’re free.

I told you not to call me Shocker out in public. Someone may recognize me. That name has a reputation out here on the streets.

Woodbridge, New Jersey ain’t the streets. Besides it’s been like twenty five years since you were put away. Nobody knows that name around here no more. That was then, this is now. I’m sure I’m a forgotten memory too.

Just don’t call me Shocker, I said.

I dropped four quarters into the coin slot and told Dirty to wait. I reached behind the jukebox and felt around until I found the magic button. I depressed it and gave Dirty the nod. He punched in the numbers for Wild Child and the Songs Remaining indicator changed from six to ninety nine.

Whoa! Sweet, how’d you know about that? Dirty asked.

I quieted him as the opening power chords thundered out from the crackling speakers painted in a thin layer of dried out ketchup. It was the first time hearing the song from somewhere other than inside my head in over two decades. Though I had crystal clear stereo memory of the best metal in my head, there was still nothing like hearing it out of a real speaker. Even if it was blown out and monotone.

Dirty was sold before Blackie could get the opening line. This song defined metal, in the 80’s, in many ways. Anyone who didn’t love it wasn’t fucking metal and that was that.

We both banged our heads like nobody was around. I saw our waitress holding back behind the counter with my coffee; she didn’t want to approach us two lunatics. I noticed other patrons around us stopping what they were doing and staring out our impromptu head banging festival.

First the first time since walking out of prison, I felt free.

***

I was working on a mediocre cup of coffee. It was a far cry from prison coffee, but that didn’t make it taste much better. I was pondering why Jersey diner coffee always seemed to be grey in color when the waitress broke the spell.

There you go boys, two pork roll, egg and cheese sandwiches. Each, she said as she dropped the plates down in front of us, looking to make a swift getaway. She was uneasy around us and that was making me uneasy.

The savory smell of pork roll fresh off the grill took my mind off the haggard waitress for the moment. My mouth watered at the sight of the twin rolls piled  with two greasy fried eggs and a generous quarter inch thick slice of pork roll and melted cheddar cheese oozing over the whole affair. It was heaven on a bun. Or a heart attack. Either way would kill me if I ate it and I couldn’t wait to die.

They don’t make ‘em like this in the slammer! Dirty said, picking up his thick sandwich.

The sandwich looked three times bigger than his mouth. That made me happy; if he managed to get his mouth around the whole thing, the kid would shut the fuck up for a minute and let me think.

We had to go north, up to Monclair. Stealing a car would be one way but that would put the heat on us right away. I had a feeling that Baby Jesus was somehow keeping us from being recognized. Public transportation would be a viable option if that were the case. I couldn’t be sure. Baby Jesus was still too young to talk. Fuck me.

I picked up the first of my twin pork roll, egg and cheese sandwiches. I felt the yolk of the egg pop as I clamped the sandwich together. Warm, sticky, yellow yolk hemorrhaged down between my thumb and