The Dooh Wads: The Ultra "House Rock" Band Is in the Crosshairs

By Kelly Coleman

They got 'game' and theyre going for it. The Sedalia nursing home can wait. After failing a robbery attempt on gun toting drug dealers, these cocky codgers turn to a seemingly placid avocation...Music!... The three of them concoct a 'House Rock' band. Joined by an eclectic, talented ensemble of young outlaws, artists and professionals, this strange band is catapulted onto 'center stage' of a treacherous terrorist conspiracy. The DOOH WADS are in the crosshairs. Will the 'deathtrap' prove lethal? Will the heroes fade back into the foggy hills of Missouri? Or, will they ride stardom to rock & roll mythos? Really? With these mavericks, one dare not guess.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483634500

Book preview

THE DOOH WADS

The Ultra "House Rock’’ Band

Is In The Crosshairs

Kelly Coleman

Copyright © 2013 by Kelly Coleman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013907927

ISBN:

   Hardcover   978-1-4836-3449-4

   Softcover    978-1-4836-3448-7

   Ebook         978-1-4836-3450-0

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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 05/06/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

117598

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

PART II

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

PART III

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

YOUR SUPPORT WAS VITAL…

Amy, Audra, Cassie, Patty & Mary

THANK YOU!

The events and characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

For Amy, Virgil, Riley, Lucas,

Audra, Maya,

Cassie, Andrew & Sho-me.

WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES, ANOTHER ONE OPENS

The Folk

NEVER NEVER NEVER QUIT

Winston Churchill

PART I

The Backstory

CHAPTER 1

He’s shooting himself with a little .38 SPECIAL. Buckley is disappointed. It’s MADE IN BRAZIL. Engraved right there on the barrel. Can’t even shoot himself with AMERICAN MADE. Going to kill himself with a small caliber, nickel-plated pistol made in Brazil. At least HE didn’t buy it. He’d taken it ‘in trade,’ years ago, along with some cash, to sell the car his ex-wife left in the driveway. That figures. She’s got her hand in this. It’s true, he owns bigger caliber handguns, and he chose the .38 for this occasion. Because, it’s nickel-plated and the dew won’t rust it like the ‘blues.’ Now that he’s out here and about what he’s doing, it seems ridiculous it had mattered.

Here he is, sitting on this rolled out sleeping bag over the ground cloth, across from his campfire, a dozen yards or so to the side of his 4x4. Under a jagged, star-studded rent in the disheveled wilderness, trying to put the bullets in the six-shooter revolver.

It’s one helluva noisy place for being in the middle of bumfuckegypt. Four by foured over two miles into this spot, and the night critters got a primal din going that shorts his high voltage anger. But, he’s tuning this out as he nears the ‘deed.’

The knuckle on his right hand is so arthritic as to make loading the cylinder painful. It hurts to push the bullets in.

Should have brought a bottle. What’s this all about? So what? He quit over twenty-five years past. He’s picturing a square fifth, JIM BEAM KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON WHISKEY, 80 PROOF, . . . and tasting it too… . What the fuck is he up to? Really! He should’ve brought a couple fifths. He’s killing himself in short order. Why not indulge his most serious pleasure? It’s the brain. Must have two of them going at the same time; one brain planning to kill him, and the other steering him towards another year of sobriety. One brain planning suicide, and the other attempting to make twenty-five years twenty-six… You go away from people and shoot yourself in the head, and you haven’t taken a drink in ‘almost’ twenty-six years. Oh, and by the way, use the nickel-plated pistol cause the dew plays hell with the blue. Well, incongruities and theology not withstanding to the contrary, I, Buckley Randolph, will ride the bullet train into tomorrow, tonight.

He’s lost a couple of bullets. He’s only got four. It only takes one. But, he’s loading all four. Spins the cylinder and snaps it shut. Cavalier like. No way he’d pull on an empty chamber. His luck, the piece will blow-up in his hand.

The knuckle on his right hand is burning like a smoldering nail, and he’s tasting the JIM BEAM again. Trying to push himself up off the dampening sleeping bag. That’s another thing, why the hell did he bother with the ground cloth?

Going to do it standing up, looking out over the silvery treetops, listening to the nocturnal symphony. Getting up isn’t easy. Like a rusty Tin Man. The knees hurt, and he’s thinking how football did this. Maybe. Maybe not. He’s told it so many times over the last twenty years, he’s believing football did it.

He’s standing now, on top the sleeping bag. In his hiking boots, LEVI’S, and plaid shirt, pistol dangling in his right hand at his side, two bullets short. Left hand on his hip, looking around, studying the moonlight over the forest… the silvery treetops. Thinking. Should’ve brought three bottles of JIM BEAM, some LUCKY STRIKE shorts, and I damn sure wish I’d taken my social security at sixty-two… that’s my money, and I never got to spend a dime.

Well, it’s time. Here’s to Jane Brady and the anti-gun groupies. And, screw you, Kevorkian. Sayonara.

He raises the .38, palm and gun butt up, the end of the barrel on his temple. Cocks the hammer. Pulls the trigger.

Click. Empty chamber.

Buckley’s standing. Still got the pistol on his temple. Staring over the frothy timbertops below.

Now, he’s pointing the gun out to his side, away from himself. Tilts his head away and pulls the trigger. He blows a hole through the side of his Ramcharger, just below the driver’s side window.

Shit! Buckley drops the gun and runs over to the truck. Looking at the hole and broken window glass. Pulling the door open. In the interior light, he can see where the bullet hit the steering column, in the same area as the ignition switch. He slides over the glass into the seat and reaches to turn the key to start. The key won’t turn, it won’t come out, and the Ramcharger won’t start. Buckley gets the key chain and other keys loose from the key stuck in the ignition. Puts them in his pocket as he gets out.

Standing there looking at the fire. Thinking, It’s a droughty wind that blows his way. Here’s another broken day in paradise.

He goes back to the fire and tosses a few bolts of wood into the flames. He climbs into his sleeping bag, boots and all. Then, he sleeps.

The fire burns higher. The moon is crossing from the eastern sky into the west. The fire burns lower. The dew is settled on the land. Now, a stranger incident is forthcoming.

A pack of coyotes begin to infiltrate the campsite. They come-in more closely, one by twos by three. Furtive and tentative, like early quests to a richer man’s party. Coming up closer towards Buckley’s shadowy, prostrate form. Stretching their muzzles out, nosing around his sleeping body.

Buckley wakes in a start, trying to figure where he is. Trying to get the sleep drug off his brain, momentarily terrified by the shadowy coyotes sifting through his campsite.

He regains his sense of presence and struggles to get out of the sleeping bag. The coyotes pull back, but they do not leave.

Buckley yells and swings a simmering branch from out the fire. The coyotes begin a slow retreat, slinking back into the darkness. Buckley has some macular deterioration of the eye, but he’s semi-aware that the pack is withdrawing. He’s not sure how far back the coyotes have withdrawn. He has this problem, distinguishing precise shapes in the shadows and darkness. However, it seems they have left.

He’s standing here, breathing hard and holding this glowing branch, when an unusually large coyote comes lunging towards him from out of the black. The coyote stops just short of Buckley’s reach, crouched low, fangs bared, snarling at Buckley. In this second, Buckley sees the reflection of himself in the eye of the beast. It’s an instant revelation. In this split second, Buckley is in receipt of a disclosure as to his infinitely small, but geometric, place in the sweep of eternity. An instant awareness of his ‘density’ in the organic world. Small as a grain of sand on the proverbial beach, but a kingdom none-the-less. An independent, self-modulating energy pack. You might say, the fella got his groove back.

This last cantankerous coyote lopes off. Buckley’s straining to see into the surrounding blackness.

He throws the barely burning branch into the fire and begins to move with purpose. Got the .38 SPECIAL stuck into his jeans. He mostly puts out the fire, and puts the sleeping bag and ground cloth into the Ramcharger.

Finally, he begins the hike out. This will be a hike over an old, abandoned road for a distance of better than two miles. Then, he’ll hit a government road and hitch a ride, after dawn. He thinks.

The dirt road is speckled with leafy moonlight. Buckley laughs out loud… . Botched his own suicide… . Then, God sends a coyote to demonstrate his relevance… and virility. I’m not supposed to die yet.

Buckley pauses, then steps over a dark spot in the road. Supposes it is a hole. Shifts the pistol into the front of his jeans. Thinking, he might accidentally shoot his pecker off and stops to empty out the three bullets and one empty shell. Puts the pistol back, and continues ahead.

Yes sir, it’s true. I’m a dinosaur doomed to extinction. No doubt about it. The world is a dynamic place. Me and my ilk will disappear… but, not yet! The women with their laptops, cell phones and fuel injected autos. They’ll be running the show. But, not mine. Not now… . A carburetor’s cheaper to repair… . Fuel injection, they can have it. Even the minorities gotta have fuel injection… . What a world.

The blacks. What are they now… Afro-Americans? Can’t just be Americans like everyone else. Gotta be AFRO-Americans. Well, they can rap and jump straight up, but this old boy isn’t caving in. Female chauvinists and black nepotism and galloping technology will not rub me out. I may be out of the loop, but I’m alive.

He groans out loud. His knee hurts, and his heel. The dampness and coolishness licking the edges of the arthritis. Fucking football! Then, there was basketball and soccer and the parachute jumps and Nam and the motorcycle accidents… . Here I am, walking a deserted road through the People’s Republic of Diversity & Sensitivity. They hire Kavorkian and video it. They don’t shoot themselves… . The .38 hit an empty chamber. Can you believe that? I wasn’t meant to die with grass in my mouth. The coyote is living proof. Fuck, he says out loud.

About this word ‘fuck.’ He’s thinking. He’s thinking Dukakis got him using the word… Guesses it was Dukakis’ wife really. Is thinking, it was Dukakis’ wife that supposedly used the word… . Maybe that was one reason Dukakis didn’t get elected. When was that? What year was it? Good word… fuck. Something about it captures the sense of frustration he feels… . That Dukakis was a short, little guy. A runt Greek.

An owl flaps across the road ahead of Buckley. He’s thinking he’s covered over a mile. Going along, thinking how the Ice Age hit with such swiftness that the mammoths were frozen in place, with the grass they were chewing still in their mouths.

Buckley believes he hears men talking. Stops in his tracks. For sure. Some men are talking up ahead. Maybe on this abandoned road he’s walking. He’s got a funny kind of headache and remembers he hasn’t taken the blood pressure meds. He fishes around in the watch pocket of his LEVI’S with his index finger and comes up with a DIOVAN. He pops the pill in his mouth and works it around until he’s able to swallow it. Sure enough, he’s hearing conversation. Out here in the middle of nowhere in the deep night.

Buckley moves ahead cautiously until he has two men in view. He’s staying back in the shadows, where he won’t be seen. His breathing has picked up. Otherwise, he’s silent, listening to the two men.

The big guy in the moonlight, When you see ’em coming up the road, turn your flashlight on and wave it back and forth… . You know what you’re supposed to ask ’em?

The little guy in the shadows, I’m supposed to ask ’em if they seen my huntin’ dog.

And… ?

If they say they’ve seen a Blue Tick, I wave ’em down the lane, down to the cabin.

Yeah. And, what if they give the wrong answer?

Then, they don’t go down the lane. I run ’em off.

How you gonna stop ’em?

The little guy coughs, I’ve got my .45 with me… for one thing. Don’t worry, Hog, they don’t know the password, they won’t be com’n’ down the lane. That’s what you pay me for, huh? By the way, what they drive’n’?

It’s different each time, and the big guy pauses to light a cigarette. It’s always a four wheel drive. Has to be to get down to the cabin.

Every Saturday morning at three A.M.?

Every Saturday morning at three A.M… . Over one million dollars in fives, tens, and twenties, wrapped and marked bio-hazardous waste. ’Bout the size of hay bales. Banded too. Just lying in the cargo compartment.

Holy Moses, Hog. That’s a lot of doe-ray-me… . We have to carry the cash in? That’s a lot of fucking paper.

Hog’s drawing on his cigarette, and he exhales. They just park it in the barn and leave in the old 4x4 parked outside.

We leave that much cash in the barn?

Well fuck, Chico. Yes, that’s what we do. I just told you that. How many times I have to tell you? We gotta stay alert ’til after dawn, that’s all. Then, the pickup guys come in, leave their 4x4 and take the SUV with the cash. Next Saturday, the boys bring’n’ in the cash take the 4x4 the pickup boys left the Saturday before. He’s dropping his cigarette to the ground. Fuck, Chico. There’s nothing complicated about it.

Buckley’s thinking he’s going to fart. He’s worried about this, and puckered pretty tight. What he’s hearing isn’t helping any. He’s squatted down so he’s less visible, and this is killing his knee. Hope against hope he does not fart… or cough. These guys mean business. And, his .38 is empty.

The little guy, We don’t lock the cash up or…

Fuck. I told you, Chico. What the fuck? We leave the vehicle in the barn unlocked with the keys in the ignition. The pickup guys know this way… when they come in, they don’t say anything but the password. They get in the vehicle and leave. That’s it. Comprehendo?

The little guy, What the fuck I care.

You care. The cash vehicle better be here for pickup. Otherwise, they kill us. The big guy, Hog, looks up at the sky, I’m going back down to the cabin. Wave ’em in when they get here, walk on down after ’em.

I got it.

Hog leaves; disappears from this abandoned road. Buckley’s trying to remember if he saw any roads branching off when he drove in last night. He can’t recollect, but what the fuck… . He was thinking about putting a bullet in his brain. How long ago was that? Maybe seven or eight hours? Buckley’s got this little intestinal thing going; hoping Chico, or whatever his name, doesn’t hear his stomach growling.

There’s headlights bouncing in. Chico’s out in the road. Looks to be unarmed, but Buckley knows better.

As the vehicular noise begins to reach here, Buckley uses it as cover. He moves back in the woods to avoid detection.

Buckley can’t hear what ‘Chico’ is saying. Just the sound of voices over the idling engine. The SUV is turning about where ‘Hog’ disappeared. He waits ’til ‘Chico’ is gone off the road, before he straightens up. It’s a killer getting his legs straight… . Remembering pulling recon in Nam.

Buckley gets the three bullets out of his pocket and reloads the .38. Holding the .38 at his side, he walks past the narrow lane branching off in the direction ‘Chico’ disappeared. Difficult to pinpoint a landmark in the night.

First, the suicide attempt. Then, I shoot the truck. Then, God shows me myself in a coyote’s eye. And, now, I’m pointed the way to over one million dollars. Parked in a barn. Talk to me some more God… . Must be drug money. It just gets better and better… . I’ve gotta be getting close to the government road. Must hide when the guys going in, come out. They see me, everything will get screwed-up.

Buckley’s getting down the road. He passes in and out of the moonlight. Limping a bit now. But, he knows, he’s gotten the message. From some distant constellation, he’s gotten the call. Transmission received! Sixty-four years young. Still in pretty good shape. Hundred and eighty-five pounds and still six foot tall. Has his hair and teeth. He’s ready. Yes, Sir, God! He’s ready. He will answer this miracle with a bold demonstration.

Hearing the bagpipes of angels. It’s a Hail Mary pass into the end zone… and, he’s there… fella’s got his groove back.

CHAPTER 2

Jerry Gerry is one of Buck’s coffee buddies. He doesn’t have a clue where Sir Buckingham Buckaroo Randolph is tonight. Or the other musketeer, Marshall. Nor, does he care. Jerry is engaged in an adventure of his own. He’s here at the Critter’s. Has what’s left of his hair moussed and sprayed down over the bald spot, a la Julius Caesar, and sweating enough cologne to incur alcohol poisoning. He’s bejeweled in a manner characteristic of an Egyptian Pharaoh; big ring with a 2 carat cubic zirconium, gold neck chain and gold link bracelet, together with the gold earring.

Jerry’s dancing with a nubile ‘illegal’ one-third his age, known as No Rulz Jo, a disco baby from south of the border, and Jerry’s latest ’drenlin/cardiac optimizer. When he’s not dancing, he’s slamming down Shirley Temples (he calls them Shirley McLains) to match the Spanish fly’s shooters. Dancing ’tween the drinks with this statistical wonder; five foot two, 34-26-34, twenty-two years and one hundred and forty-seven menstrations down the road of life.

Critters got the DJ in a hollowed-out Hummer in the middle of the dance floor, playing a little of everything ’cepting rappola. Mostly rock’n’roll.

Jerry and No Rulz are an item. You got Grandpa here with the Spanish fly, and Grandpa can boogie. Sweating like a racehorse, but hanging in there with the ‘dudes.’ It does not go unnoticed that he’s with the statistical wonder from south of America. And, Jerry likes this; squiring a very sexy and very junior southern member of the global village makes him feel younger. Hotdamn, Senors and Senoritas, he is the Boogie Master. No bleacher leecher here. Jerry is a player… just check his girl out.

Jerry’s not a bad guy; he’s just in a mild form of hysteria, now going on three years, since his wife died. Without the feminine endorsement, Jerry’s emotional quotient sinks like a lead dumbbell. No Rulz Jo is his latest dependency in a long line of serial relationships.

The ‘conquest’ is very important to him. No Rulz Jo has her overnight bag in the El Dorado, and Jerry’s thinking they’ll leave in about thirty minutes. He’s had a vasectomy, stockpiled a variety of multi-colored condoms and lubricants. It’s no small amount of irony that Jerry also suffers from erectile dysfunction. This makes him obsess about getting laid. Nevertheless, he’s remained fastidious in his selection process. Witness No Rulz Jo!

For this ‘project,’ Jerry has a prize architect for straight and plum erections; the world renowned Count Viagra, no less famous than Frank Lloyd Wright. No trick to consume one, no I’ll do two, of these blue diamonds (without being observed). Chasing them down with a Shirley McLain. These pills were given to him at a meeting of Vietnam Veterans of America. His buddy warned him to take only one. However, Jerry’s in a mental frenzy and got this excitement for No Rulz Jo. He’s pressing on with a sense of urgency, and fuck the blood pressure. Figures to take the Lotrel pill later.

He’s got the blue diamonds into his system, and No Rulz’s dragging him back on the dance floor, in the spot lights, up close to the front of the DJ’s hollowed out Hummer vehicle. He’s smiling towards No Rulz, doing his personalized rock’n’roll, anticipating some phallic jolt. Not sure what to expect on this first experiment with the Viagra. Kinda lost in the music, and concentrating on his crotch…

No Rulz has stopped dancing and is shrinking away from him. And Jerry Gerry is tasting blood. He’s pretty sure it’s blood. This Latino chick beside him has stopped dancing, mouth gaping open, staring at him, and others are starting to wind down their dancing.

Blood is squirting out in front of Jerry and he stops dancing, holding his hand up to his face. He’s bleeding, like Niagara Falls. From an explosive nosebleed.

No Rulz Jo, wide-eyed, You bleeding, Jer, you bleeding. You bleeding.

The DJ in the gutted Hummer is taking notice, and now he’s stopping the music and switching on the overhead neon lights. The party’s over.

The Boogie Master has a lot of blood down his front, mixed in with the