Suicide The Hard Way: And Other Tales From The Innerzone

By Christopher Alan Broadstone

If you love POE, BARKER and THE TWILIGHT ZONE, you'll love "SUICIDE THE HARD WAY"!

SUICIDE THE HARD WAY: And Other Tales From The Innerzone––collects 7 never-before-released stories of the macabre from CHRISTOPHER ALAN BROADSTONE, horror filmmaker (HUMAN NO MORE) and novelist (PUZZLEMAN). Each tale lures us down twilight byways instinctively sped-through and discounted by most, but never explored. Within these stories, however, we become lost, meandering onto backstreets and alleyways––stumbling through the grim reality of introspection that always leads to a terrifying, nihilistic, and often brutal look into the soul: the Innerzone.

Continuing this theme, SUICIDE THE HARD WAY also includes Broadstone's 3 screenplays for his award-winning short films, SCREAM FOR ME (Best Short Film: New York City Horror Film Festival), MY SKIN! (Best Horror Short Category: Shriekfest Film Festival [L.A.]), and HUMAN NO MORE (Best Horror Short: The Indie Gathering [O.H.]). These films, anthologized as the DVD 3 DEAD GIRLS! (available on Amazon), are explored in-depth by film critic MATTHEW SANDERSON in his original essay for this printing, titled: MADNESS AND MEANING. To bring even greater insight to Broadstone's filmmaking process, is the production diary kept by reviewer/filmmaker LEE BAILES, while working as Assistant Camera and BTS videographer on the set of HUMAN NO MORE. First published on the website THE RUMOUR MACHINE, it is now available here, titled: THE MAKING OF HNM: How An Englishman Spent His Summer In An L.A. Basement. (Active links to Film Music and Additional Film Info are also included in the Kindle version of this book.)

Completing SUICIDE THE HARD WAY is a section compiling 32 of Broadstone's previously unpublished dark, introspective lyrics and poetry, some if which are interpolated into his films, and many others of which are lyrics for music recorded and performed by his heavy grunge/rock band, THE JUDAS ENGINE. (Active links to Downloadable Music are also included in the Kindle version of this book.) SUICIDE THE HARD WAY: And Other Tales From The Innerzone is an ambitious work that chronicles all facets of Christopher Alan Broadstone's creative career: writer, poet/lyricist, musician, and filmmaker.

CONTENTS:

Preface by Rick Wildridge

Foreword by Lee Bailes

SHORT STORIES –– Little Jimmy Combat / Hellbound Hillary / Smileys' Grave / On Strike / Suicide The Hard Way / Scream For Me / Roseblood

3 SHORT SCREENPLAYS –– Foreword by Michael Laimo –– Madness And Meaning: A Filmic Essay by Matthew Sanderson –– Screenplay Key –– Scream For Me (Adapted) / My Skin! / Human No More –– The Making of HNM by Lee Bailes –– Kindle edition includes active links throughout to Film Music and Additional Film Info.

LYRICS & POETRY –– About The Lyrics & Poetry by C.A. Broadstone –– The Black Cab / Blood & Love / Broken Arm / Can I Kill It / Care And Feeding Of Suspension Bridges / Charlie Asleep / Color Of Flame / Concret. Dirt. / Cut / Dig In / Earth Machine / Endless / Goodbye In The World Again / Heaven Missed / I Am A Wall / In The Moonlight / Killer In A Jar / Little Darkness / Misanthropia / My Skin / My Swim / Never On My Hands / Night Before Never / No Misunderstanding / Scorpion Ocean / Snow / Soul In A Hole / Squirm / Thrush / Tongue / World Scream / Y –– Kindle edition includes active links throughout to Downloadable Music.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Alan Broadstone
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005645700

Christopher Alan Broadstone

Christopher Alan Broadstone is the author of the macabre-thriller PUZZLEMAN. His novella A CATCH IN TIME (a dark alternative-history thriller) is now available on all eBook platforms and in trade paperback on Amazon and from Texas POĒtrope @ www.poetrope.com; the relative short film, A CATCH IN TIME: CHAPTER ONE is now available on the HUMAN NO MORE Blu-ray. SUICIDE THE HARD WAY: AND OTHER TALES FROM THE INNERZONE is an in-depth collection of Brodastone's never-before-released short stories, screenplays, and lyrics/poetry. Currently, he is completing his second macabre-thriller novel, HEATHER'S TREEHOUSE (due Summer 2022) and a new collection of short stories (and more) titled NOTES-TO-SELF: ACCUMULATED THOUGHTS, TRANSFERRED INTO WORD FORM (due Christmas 2021). Also, Broadstone has just released his first feature film HUMAN NO MORE, now available on Blu-ray from Amazon and at Texas POĒtrope––Books, Films, Music. Please find Texas POĒtrope @ www.poetrope.comServing as writer and director, C.A. Broadstone has also produced three award-winning short films: SCREAM FOR ME (Best Short Film: NYC Horror Film Festival, Best Underground Short: B-Independent.com), MY SKIN! (Best Horror Short: Shriekfest Film Festival [L.A.], Creative Vision Award: International Horror & Sci-Fi Film Festival [Phoenix, AZ], Best Film/Director: Cinema Edge Awards), and HUMAN NO MORE (Best Horror Short: The Indie Gathering Film Festival [OH]). Also, he has completed two feature length screenplays, COLOR OF FLAME, an erotic ghost story, and, with actor/writer John Franklin (Isaac from 'Children of the Corn'), R (Best Horror Feature Screenplay: Shriekfest Film Festival [L.A.]). In total, C.A. Broadstone's films have been showcased on several horror compilation DVDs, have screened at 30 international film festivals, and have won 15 'Best Of' awards. All three films are currently available on the anthology DVD, 3 DEAD GIRLS! at Texas POĒtrope––Books, Films, Music. Please find Texas POĒtrope @ www.poetrope.com.

Book preview

– SPECIAL THANKS –

First, I would like to thank everyone who has ever taken a moment to read what I write and watch the few films I have been lucky enough to make.  Without all of you, this writing/filmmaking habit would be a very lonely addiction indeed.

I would also like to thank those who have been my tremendous supporters over the years, from the word-of-mouthers to the critics who have helped to focus a light on my existence.  Especially Eve Blaack of Hacker's Source magazine and once judge at the New York City Horror Film Festival—the first fest with balls enough to screen my film Scream For Me. They also deemed my little movie worthy of the Best Short Film award that year; a moment I'll never forget.

Thanks also must go out to those critics who became fans and then friends who have often given their time on my behalf, and who have contributed to this book.  Lee Bailes, thank you for such a kind Foreword, as well as your pithy and witty Making Of HNM Diary; and Matthew Sanderson, thank you for such an insightful, critical analysis of my films and writing—sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. I also thank Judith Herdman, a fellow writer who stumbled into my online world and then was generous enough to meticulously beta-read the stories in this book, as well as previously help me nail a midnight deadline for my short story Note-To-Self for Terry M. West's anthology Journals Of Horror: Found Fiction.  A heartfelt thank you goes to author Michael Laimo, who once took time out of his busy schedule to watch my films.  He found worth and inspiration in them; enough so, that he sent me his thoughts and has so kindly allowed me to share them as a foreword to the screenplay section of this book.

Now it's time to mention the artist Danilo Montejo, who not only created the amazing cover for my novel Puzzleman—and now the outstanding cover for Suicide The Hard Way—but also contributed as Art Director on my film Human No More.  No truer and more generous friend have I ever known, and no greater visual imagination have I had the pleasure to encounter.

Last but not least—and as always—I want to thank Rick Wildridge, who has been a supporter of my artistic madness from my early musician days through my earliest short story writing, during the finalization and publication of my novel Puzzleman, and throughout my films—all three of which he gave serious hands-on time, donning the grueling production-hat of Assistant Director.  But most importantly, he has always been there when I needed him the most.  A genuine friend who has been with me for the long haul.

Thank you all.

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– THIS BOOK –

....is dedicated to my mother and father, Billie and D.C. Broadstone.  Their unyielding and never ending support has kept me going when I wanted to give up—which are too many times to count.  And although this book represents many years of my life and is a transitional moment in my artistic world, it's still only a beginning, which again makes me feel small.  But then I remember how big my parents always make me feel, and through pure example have never failed to prove that unconditional love is a fuel powerful enough to drive rockets to the farthest stars.  Thank you.  Time to blast off.

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INTRODUCTION –

By

Rick Wildridge

Chris Broadstone and I became fast friends in August 1984, shortly after I moved to Texas and was introduced to him by a friend at a Psychedelic Furs concert.  I was interested in the burgeoning new-music scene and he was the drummer in a jazz-punk band known as About 9 Times.  I attended their debut show a couple of weeks later and was blown away by his intense drumming.  I also discovered that he was the lyricist for the group and co-wrote some of the music.

The band took me on as their manager and we set out to do wonderful things.  From the beginning, Chris had said About 9 Times' goal was to make a record.  After a long summer of writing original material we booked time at Crystal Clear Sound, a studio in Dallas, and went to serious work.  It was during these recording sessions that I learned about Chris’s vision and dedication to completing projects, as we were soon behind schedule and reaching our budget limit for recording the album.  Chris, always the perfectionist, was unhappy with one particular—and in my mind minor—part of a song.  (I don’t remember now which one.) He said that he would pay for the additional recording time out of his own pocket if that was what it would take to get the piece right.  It was corrected and we released the record Play Jacks in March 1985, immediately playing live performances to support the LP.  It was fascinating for me to watch Chris furiously banging away on his expansive drum set—which included a variety of percussion instruments—and to see many, many audiences fascinated as well.

I learned more about his writing skills while on frequent road-trips to various shows, when he told me he’d written several short stories, quite a bit of poetry, and had even finished the rough draft of a novel.  I later helped him organize and digitize this material on his first, floppy-disk driven, Macintosh computer.  That effort resulted in his debut book of lyrics and poetry—which was self-published on-demand (8.5x11 copies) and hardbound one volume at a time at a local print shop, then sold to fans at the About 9 Times shows.  There was no such thing as author-friendly, digital publishing or a Kindle back in those days.

After the local success of Play Jacks, the band made plans to record a second album entitled There Is No… That’s when I learned about Chris’s interest in filmmaking, as he decided to film the making of There Is No… as a documentary.  The movie was shot on a Super-8 film camera—with all picture and sound editing completed on a crude, Super-8 projector.  It debuted at the record release party in the summer of 1986, to a full house at the 500 Café club, and to the delight of hardcore fans.

Fast-forward several years: Chris has relocated to Los Angeles with his band The Judas Engine.  After losing TJE due to uncontrollable circumstances, and suffering great frustration with the screenplay adaption of his unpublished novel for jaded Hollywood producers, he concluded he needed to make a short film to prove to the world that he could do it.  Of course, I offered to help—again.  All in all, it was quite an adventure and we ended up making a remarkable movie called Scream for Me.  I was able to witness Chris's genius (and depravity) at work, while slaving in sweltering temperatures on a cramped set, to help him bring his vision to light.  Scream For Me ended up winning several independent film awards at festivals around the country.  But before the festivals and awards even began to materialize, Chris had decided to make another short film (My Skin!), and then another (Human No More).  I strongly encourage you to see all three, which are available as the DVD 3 Dead Girls! Each film is totally different; the common thread being a girl is dead and you need to know why.  Chris tells the why in his own style.

But let me return to the writing.  Chris told me once that writing was—and is—his first love.  Thus, I ultimately helped him publish his debut novel, Puzzleman. I believed then, and still do today, that it is a wonderful read.  But time to move forward again.  He has a new book—Suicide The Hard Way—for your consumption! I hope everyone enjoys his latest creation!  I know I will.

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– FOREWORD –

By

Lee Bailes

Ah! You've caught me at a delicate moment—just as I'm about to strap this here butcher knife to my tallywhacker.  Apologies.  Let me put the tape down and give you a hearty handshake.  Welcome friend!  Now by the looks of you—by the squirmy, limp-slick handshake you just gave me—I'd say that you're not familiar with the Madman style of lovin'?  Amiright? Well I reck'n yer in fer a real bonafide treat! Now where did I leave that electrical cord?

Sorry.  Let me rewind.  I tend to get ahead of myself sometimes.  I tend to channel characters, even if they're not my own—and especially when fuelled by vodka, Broadstone's rapey-redneck Madman can take over. Please let me introduce myself—the real me—crazy Brit, former film critic/reviewer of a now defunct website, unknown writer and filmmaker, corporate slut, human sandbag, fierce champion of and challenger to Christopher Alan Broadstone: author, auteur horror filmmaker extraordinaire, editor, jack-of-all-filmmaking-trades-multi-hyphenate-talent, drummer and songwriter.  Somehow, in their madness, the publishers of this fine work have seen fit to give me a pulpit, to preach about my relationship with the author and explain how I first discovered his work. And I am honoured and will try not to lose my thread of thought again.

I envy you y'know, especially if you don't yet know Chris's work.  You have all the fun of a blank slate to make bloody.  You have dark recesses in your brains that are yet to hear the pipescreams, eyes that have not yet taken in the glorious sight of Madman strutting his stuff, or seen Detective Nemo share his heartfelt despair.  I can only re-enjoy Chris's current compendium until he creates something new.  Which is why I was so excited about this writing assignment—I finally get to read some newly collected works that have not seen the light of day until now. And I get to read them before you! That's enough for me, dear friends.  At least I hope that we'll soon be friends.  Brothers-in-arms.  Identifying each other by the sleep-haunted bags under our eyes, the thousand yard inner-nightmare stare, and the pipescreams that we will all half hear in the night.  Oh yes!  I can assure you that you're in for a treat.

...I see crucifixes!  Not dead people.  I see crucifixes on the wall, hundreds of ‘em.  I see brains, lots of 'em.  I see blood, most certainly, not grume.  I see aviator shades, a hula doll, a desk organizer and a bloody knife.  And I see a whole fist of bloody heart!  Every time I watch Human No More, I think back to the time that I worked on that crazy film and I laugh, kind of hysterically—only on the inside.  Sssh!  Don't tell anyone!... 

Sorry, back again.

I first heard of Chris when I used to run a website called The Rumour Machine, based in the U.K.  It was a site that was devoted to Horror, Fantasy and Sci-Fi, and anything else that was dark and twisted and took our fancy or needed a champion to spread the word.  One day, when searching the bowels of the internet, I came across a site that reviewed the submissions to the Shriekfest Film Festival in Los Angeles.  It also touted films that had been submitted too late to enter the festival.  The most interesting film I found was the description of a shock-cinema, torture piece: Scream For Me.

Immediately, I contacted the filmmaker (Christopher Alan Broadstone) to explain how I had heard of him and also to ask for a copy of his film for review.  And, almost as quickly, I received a doubt-filled reply; it fell short of calling me a liar, but it certainly wasn't an excited acceptance.  I didn’t realise this at the time, but Chris had not been notified of the review (for both My Skin! and Scream For Me) going live and was therefore surprised that I had discovered it.  But being a stubborn fool—in those days I was used to rejection—I wasn’t going to give up.  And once Chris confirmed the legitimacy of the mysterious review/website, he was happy to comply with my request.  Not long thereafter, I was more-than-thrilled to find a copy of the My Skin!/Scream For Me DVD in the mail.  In fact there were a couple of copies, some stickers, a pen and a t-shirt, as well as some very thoughtful press pack info.  I was truly impressed by the quality of what had been sent and really hoped that the films were not shit.  Yes, I’m sorry to say that I was often sent some really shit films to review—but it was worth wading through ten shit films for every gem that I discovered.  Scream For Me and My Skin! are two of those gems. 

Chris had checked out The Rumour Machine, prior to my review going up, and was expecting me to tear him a new creative arsehole.  He was certainly not expecting me to praise his films, to recognise them as a truly original works and then to petition other reviewers/magazines and festivals to give the films a chance.  Including Unrated magazine (also in the U.K.). 

Chris and I like to think that this act of kindness started a small independent film review/festival award snowball.  In his own words: "I never would have submitted to Shriekfest again if it wasn't for you.  And I wouldn't have won."—My Skin! garnered one of the coveted Best Short Film awards that year and, just over a month later, Scream For Me won Best Short Film at the New York City Horror Film Festival. But I can't take the credit.  Chris made the films.  He turned his life upside down for years to create them and then many more to pay for them.

As time went by, we chatted often—shooting the shit over vodka and Skype—predominantly about the creative process and consoling each other through attacks of SADS (Self-Accomplishment Deficit Syndrome, or a.k.a Stupid Artist Depression Syndrome).  During this time I was trying to get one of my own films made—a story that required a concrete cell, possibly a basement.  Those conversations, and Chris snapping me pictures of the basement located at his place of employment, eventually pushed him over the edge into making Human No More.  Chris even invited me along for the ride, to help him shoot the movie and document its conception by filming the Behind-The-Scenes; something I will always cherish. This event also firmly established our friendship.  Along with my eventual return trip to L.A. (to help put together his DVD anthology 3 Dead Girls!) and our historic road trip along the Californian coast, our friendship was further cemented, paving the way for us attempting to work together on another project—the as yet unfilmed—Roseblood.  But now I digress, so why not take a sideways back-step in effort to forge ahead?

…I don't like puzzles.  I don't like mysteries.

Amanda, the lead character in Chris’s first novel, Puzzleman, hates puzzles.  Yet unwittingly she solves the biggest puzzle of them all in her battle with the titular monster.  Chris-the-author, ironically, is unable to solve the greatest puzzle of them all—himself—and control his own fate.  If he could, by now we'd all know who Christopher Alan Broadstone is.  He would be a household name, like Stephen King, or at least as well known as Clive Barker, whom he greatly admires.  But fate is rarely kind to artists.  And yet, Chris still creates.  But who is Chris really?  I've been remiss in not yet telling you anything tangible and for that I apologise.

Christopher Alan Broadstone is what I've been speaking of: an artist.  Not the kind of pretentious artist often called Summer or Drake, that misuse the term to describe what they do—while floating from one canapé and champagne occasion to another, before bouncing back to their trust fund homes to plan how they can next get mentioned in the local newspaper social columns—and rarely expend any tangible effort in the act of raw creation.  No, I'm talking about those rare individuals that are willing to walk a line that few dare to tread, to think the thoughts that few are comfortable to experience and then wallow in, and ultimately savour until they get to the point when they can say what they're trying to say—in whatever medium they choose; be it music, film, or page after page of prose.  And through all that time, they forego social occasions and momentary rewards, the distraction of better paying jobs and family life, to create something—to share something ineffable, that until the moment of birth lives only within them.  To give of themselves—purely to share—despite the sheer hours of backbreaking graft and how close to being broken by their own creativity they might come.  Chris Broadstone is the epitome of those warrior-creators to me.  There are many people who are far more prolific, but that often betrays the fact that less heart was bled into that act of creation.  Chris gives until he can’t give anymore.

'Politically incorrect' and 'visionary' are words I've sometimes used when speaking about him.  'Fool' and 'clown' also.  And yes, I've mocked him, as true friends do—with an ever-present 'wink' emoticon at hand—to provoke a response and shatter any dodgy preconceptions that he is suffering under.  But he is always 'Chris'.  And he is always 'friend'.  I am lucky to say that he has been there for me when others have not.  I still laugh at the idea that a Brit that no one has heard of and a great—and much under sung—filmmaker and writer can end up becoming friends; and then taunt each other online, drunkenly, as they while away the hours, consoling each other through the pain of birthing their demons for the world to consume.

Chris doesn't see that straight line before him.  In fact he distrusts it.  And maybe so should we.  He resists good advice and flaunts what is expected of him.  He doesn't always act the way he should.  But that is his nature.  He resists.  Always.

He is a good person who has been battered by his own imaginary demons.  Yet he's still willing to get back in the ring and take another punch-drunken swing, on your behalf, dear reader.  We should all be grateful for that, if we believe that art does not and should not come easily.  I like the idea that a little bit of blood is mixed in with his ink and that every precious drop of it is used to craft the words that will eventually move us.  I like that he suffered while trying to birth another demonic-vision.  Hopefully, dear reader, you will like that too. 

...Don't fear the nightmares that will come.  Embrace them…

I also recommend that if you like his work, you should do him a solid favour and gift your friends and acquaintances with a mention of his books, music, and films.  After all, what's better than to spread the nightmares?  Share what haunts you, dear reader...share on.

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– SHORT STORIES –

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– LITTLE JIMMY COMBAT –

"What would become of the garden if the

gardener treated all the weeds and slugs and

birds and trespassers as he would like to be

treated, if he were in their place?"

—T.H. Huxley

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– ONE –

"RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TAT!

"RA-TA-TAT!

RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TAT!  Gotcha!

Ten year old Jimmy Hodges sucked a breath and rolled out from beneath the mammoth azalea bush in the center of his backyard, sending the blood-red blossoms into wicked shivers.  Leaping to his feet, he maintained cover behind the bush and checked his new pellet rifle for ammo, pumped the chamber with air, and waited for the azaleas to simmer down again.  Intently, he listened. 

All was quiet.  No footsteps coming up either side of the bush. 

Supper tiiiimmme!

Jimmy nearly jumped out of his skin and fell over his own two feet trying to hold his position and avoid stumbling into enemy fire. 

Dog-damnit! he growled under his breath.  Shit! 

Jiiimmyyy!  Suuupperrrr!

It was his mom scaring the buckshot out of him, not to mention screwing up battle plans and broadcasting his position to the enemy one more time.  He was lucky he hadn't been picked off years ago, thanks to her calling him in for breakfast, brunch, lunch, and every other dag-blasted thing she could think of—and always at the most critical moments.  Hell, Jimmy would have bet all his pellets and BBs for a year that Doug MacArthur wouldn't even have made drill sergeant if his mother had been so bothersome and traitorous.

Jiiimmyyy!  Dad's hooomme! she cried again from the back deck of the house, her voice thin and shrill.  Come oooon nowww!  Playtime's over for t'dayyy!  Supper's on the table!

Ah crud, barked Jimmy, throwing his rifle down and stomping out into full view.  I'm comin'!

He glanced back over his shoulder, past the azalea bush, toward the forest of high, dark trees where his backyard ended, the dangerous front line began, and his enemy always hid . . . forever waiting to attack.

Bloody piss-pickles! he growled, then shouted at the trees: Guess you suckers will just have t'wait till t'morrow t'get your commie heads blown off!

Suddenly though, Jimmy's frustration wormed its way into a great big smile.  Tomorrow was Saturday.  No school!  He could stay up late tonight and draw out his battle plans; get his strategy laid out proper; clean his equipment and sweet-talk it into fine working order.  Better believe it, no school meant he could rise early and hurry back to his little war first thing in the morning, in tip-top condition.  Enemy beware!

Jimmyyyyy!  Come ooonn! his mother called out one last time before slipping back into the house.  Supper's gettin' coooollld!

Jimmy glared up at the wounded sky, the last of the sunset bleeding through the clouds.  It was starting to get dark and fighting at night was always tricky to be sure—or so his father, an ex-Marine who had served two tours in Vietnam, had told him again and again.  Nonetheless, having to quit battle just before he had overtaken that darn old pecan tree near the corner of his yard was as irritating as running out of ammo on a holiday when the stores were closed.

Turning back to face the house, Jimmy waved listlessly at his mother, although she had already disappeared behind the screen door.  Adjusting his helmet (actually his older brother's abandoned mini-bike helmet painted camouflage with old model airplane paints), he bent down and retrieved his pellet rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and started the long march back to home base.

He froze.

Something slithered in the darkness behind him.  It wrapped itself around the trees at the back of the yard.  Jimmy whirled and squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was moving back there.  He saw nothing.  He cocked his head in an effort to hear better through his helmet.  Again, nothing.

Coulda been the breeze, he thought.

The wind was picking up a bit and several dismal clouds, the portent of a storm front, were just starting to roll in.

Coulda been a squirrel.

Coulda been a rabbit, Jimmy heard his mother sound-off from the lectern in his mind.  Don't you hurt any fluffy rabbits, Jimmy Ronald Hodges, d'you understand me?

Yeah, Mom, yeah, yeah.

A shadow—no, an army of shadows!—suddenly bobbed at the right corner of the front line of trees.  Jimmy's eyes widened and jumped in that direction, past the archaic pecan, but again the movement was gone.  Or was it?  He leaned forward—thought he saw something spiral and dissipate.  Something dark.  A giant snake?

Ain't ever seen nothin' bigger than a foot-long garden snake out there.

Just the same, little Jimmy took firm hold of his rifle, tore his eyes off the back line of trees and hurried, like a good boy should, to the last dinner he would ever share with his family again.

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– TWO –

It rained bitterly throughout the night, starting about ten thirty P.M. and ending mere minutes before dawn.  The lightning, playing out like a night for creating monsters, had been blinding and the thunder that had followed every craggy charge had been brutal.  Angry!  Another vicious, Texas summer thunderstorm to add to the local record books.  There were even a few tornadoes around and about and certainly some hail.

Jimmy's alarm clock, a metal-type (spray-painted olive green) with a hammer and two bells mounted on top, began to ring as shrilly as the previous storms had growled.  It was O-six-hundred hours, straight up. 

Jimmy spasmed and flopped onto his back.  Swinging his right hand out from beneath his sheets, he threw it down hard on top of the clock (jittering in the center of his military drum nightstand), knocking the timepiece onto its scarred face and clicking off the alarm in the process.  Without opening his sleep-glued eyes, Jimmy sprung out of bed and landed lightly on the hardwood floor.  Like a paratrooper might touch down in unfriendly territory, he dove into a pile of dirty clothes in front of his desk and rolled with the impact.  For several seconds he laid flat on his back . . .

but then the lids of his right eye began to shimmer,

then shutter,

then stretch, trying to pull themselves apart.  His left eye also executed a similar ritual.  When both eyes were open and lucid enough to read the caption on the giant poster thumb-tacked to the ceiling above him—ARMY, NAVY, AIR FORCE, MARINES: IT'S A GREAT PLACE TO START!  VISIT YOUR LOCAL RECRUITER TODAY!—Jimmy began to imagine himself as one of the many troopers in the poster, dropping to the ground like little white spiders from the pregnant belly of the transport plane.

Flipping onto his stomach, he pressed his cheek, ear, and palms to the floorboards.  Silence.  He waited.  Still no enemy footsteps.  No indiscreet noises.  No sounds of life except for that of his own breathing.  He raised himself up, push-up style, then sprang to his feet, hurriedly scooping up his parachute (dirty clothes) and stashing it out of sight behind a large bush (his dirty clothes hamper).

Always secure or destroy any signs of arrival, he remembered his father's words.  "If your presence is compromised, your life will be compromised."

Exercising stealth that would make his father proud, Jimmy dashed into a nearby cave (his stand-up closet) on tiptoe.  In the half-dark interior he prepared for the day's mission, which he had been up until O-two-hundred hours planning.

Slipping off his sleep-shorts, stenciled with the letters U.S. ARMY across the seat, he nabbed his Saturday battle fatigues.

If you're gonna dress at all, he gloated.  Dress t'kill.

Dropping to the floor, he snagged his socks: thick and light brown.  Next came his trousers, his pride and joy—his Mother had purchased a nearly depleted bolt of camouflage material from the local fabric store and handmade him a matching uniform top and bottom.