Cripple Creek Pass: The Viking Child

By J. J. Bond

CRIPPLE CREEK PASS..

Prelog to Stealing Home by j. j. Bond..

The Viking Child:

A string of unexplained murders on the tiny most northern Canadian Island.. The discovery of an elusive, psychotic, sadistic, serial killer.. A turn for the worse.. The theft of the wrong car.. A chase of excitement, discovery and adventure to find, track and recover the totally restored, green, 1967 Ford Mustang Coupe.. The breathtaking views, the sights and scenery of Newfoundland, within the back drops, of Gros Morne National Park.. The beauty of the Appalachian Mountain Range and The Long Range Mountains.. Discover the secrets of the origin, of all life, in North American Civilization.. Join the Viking Child, Drisko Oobbew's race against time.. The chase around the twist and turns of The Rock.. The journey of the New Age Viking Clan, intent on catching a killer and letting him Kiss the Cod.. The search of the Clan to trap him before the Newfoundland Provincial Police and the local Sheriffs get to him.. This is where kin is kin, and Kings are Kings, the beginning of it all, the discovery of Newfoundland..

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532072024

J. J. Bond

Raised in a small town outside of Toronto, Canada. Studied Arts and Photography in College then received an Administration Business Diploma and is one of the original founders and developers of an International Trade Magazine for the automotive market. The author’s purpose and passion soon propelled him into working in the fast paced empires of international Advertising and Promotions. As a Specialized Multi-Media Agent, New Business Development and Creative Production Consultant. Along with his international marketing experiences, the author’s career took him zooming into many exotic and erotic places. Then deep into a journey through the protected underworld and on into an unbelievable adventure into the New World Vikings of Newfoundland.

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Copyright © 2018 j. j. Bond.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-7201-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7202-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  01/24/2020

CONTENTS

Prologue to Stealing Home by j. j. Bond.. - The Viking Child

Chapter One   A Voodoo Thing..

Chapter Two   Running with the Devil..

Chapter Three   Hell’s Bells..

Chapter Four   Riders on the Storm..

Chapter Five   White Rabbit..

Chapter Six   Aqua Lung..

Chapter Seven   Symphony for the Devil..

Chapter Eight   Magic Carpet Ride..

Chapter Nine   Along The Watchtower..

Chapter Ten   Black Magic Woman..

Chapter Thirteen   Welcome to the Jungle..

PROLOGUE TO STEALING

HOME BY J. J. BOND..

The Viking Child

A string of unexplained murders on the tiny most northern Canadian Island.. The discovery of an elusive, psychotic, sadistic, serial killer.. A turn for the worse.. The theft of the wrong car.. A chase of excitement, discovery and adventure to find, track and recover the totally restored, green, 1967 Ford Mustang Coupe.. The breathtaking views, the sights and scenery of Newfoundland, within the back drops, of Gros Morne National Park.. The beauty of the Appalachian Mountain Range and The Long Range Mountains.. Discover the secrets of the origin, of all life, in North American Civilization.. Join the Viking Child, Drisko Oobbew's race against time.. The chase around the twist and turns of The Rock.. The journey of the New Age Viking Clan, intent on catching a killer and letting him Kiss the Cod.. The search of the Clan to trap him before the Newfoundland Provincial Police and the local Sheriffs get to him.. This is where kin is kin, and Kings are Kings, the beginning of it all, the discovery of Newfoundland..

CHAPTER ONE

A Voodoo Thing..

The dust filled the skies, then laid gently back on its bed, exactly, preciously as it did before it was so abruptly disturbed.. Then back again, rising, heaving, angelic, heavenly and in unison with the constant disruption.. The earth trembling from the friction, yet holding solid as the SR75/250/15 BF GOODRICH POLY/MAX steel belted rubbers, slice their way down the dirt topped lane.. The dust dancing, it seemed, as they formed and rose high above the cliffs of Cripple Creek Pass.. Seemingly to hang, to peek, to soak in the views.. The overwhelmingly breathtaking sunsets, renowned worldwide..

Brilliant lights, shattering the serenity of it's wildness, streaking and stroked perfectly picturesque against the blue, green and white tops of the dark Atlantic.. A symphony surrounding you with a cinema of lunar night shows, black holes and giant meteor showers, frighteningly close, scraping the tip of the horizon.. Shooting star studded festivals, dancing with the tempo of the Aurora Borealis live and in living colour, all in the curiosity of and from the hand, of the Gods.. Then to stare down, deep, into the abyss, the belly of the monster, the crashing of her rock shores, the water’s edge.. The mouth of the giant as she growls with her sharpened teeth.. More treacherous than one could possibly imagine, or as it may had otherwise appeared in charcoal sketches, photographs, hand drawing, artworks, paintings or picture post cards, suitable for framing.. Earth shattering, scratching, ripping wave patterns, pounding, screaming, beckoning you to the Sirens call..

Then the steel shading of the chrome bumper appears, abruptly, jagging in an out of sight with each precision maneuver.. Then, with a thrust the octanes applied, slipping and sliding inward and out, recklessly, but with skill.. Then dangerously encroaching on the edge, mindless, of its vast sheered rock faces, the faces of death.. Sixty, seventy, ninety eight the speedometer climbed, as the mass of rubber, glass and steel, careened, weightlessly above the dirt lane, as he breathes in the fragrance, of the blood, of the sea.. The Mag wheels all shiny and chromed, spitting the dust back off from their mighty rotation and custom coating, insuring to repel dirt..

The two doors, with sliced cut, retracting rear seat windows, a custom detailing the model style, the giveaway.. The nose and front grill, would identify its infamous style to anyone alive.. But the branding, the markings on this animal, her insignia, used to globally recognizing her.. The horse, the birth of the Mustang.. As rare a breaded of animal, as there is in the world today, or that this planet will ever see.. The 1967, green, two door, Ford Mustang coupe with a 351 Cleveland, V8, 4 speed slap stick, high pressure clutch, factory speced and in mint condition.. Was being tortured, with pride, by its owner, master, king and saviour..

See Drisko and his uncle Bev built that car from scratch when Drisk was only a boy, fifteen.. Drisk was anxious to get himself a Mustang.. He was jumping at the bit, searching out anything he could find about the car.. By the time Drisk was thirteen, he was well studied in the car.. Drisk started out by helping his grandpa and uncle around the shop for money, saving, scrimping every cent he could out of them..

He read the Auto Trader Classic Car Magazine faithfully, not like most kids, no, he’d study it, in depth.. The boy did his homework.. He knew the legend well, better than most kids his age.. He could put the car together in his sleep.. He knew the car inside out, he knew the one he wanted to buy, he knew it held a special value and he most definitely knew why.. Without ever revealing a flange of thought, he knew the car that would be his, one day, one day very soon..

When Bev got word that Drisko was ready with his cash and that it was time to finalize his plans.. Bev took young Drisk aside and laid out the game.. See Drisk, a cars, cars, a car eh’, to the naked eye, well each model eh', well they all look the same.. But the truth is, they’re all completely different.. See Drisko my boy, when you’re dealing with used cars, every owner had a different purpose eh’, every car had different drivers, some hard, some soft.. Bev would pace, a lot, thinking quick, treating Drisk like his son had he lived.. Bev would pull back his grey locks, hold his head like it contained the answers.. But Drisko knew that he did know, so he listened, as Bev would pace.. Some cars are really owned by little old ladies, driven to church on da Lords day, lordy geez..

The thing is eh', you gots to takes your times eh’, especially when you’re looking at the classics, ya knows, twenty, thirty year old vehicles, like the Tangers eh’.. Drisko catching on quickly to the nick name of his Mustang, his dream car, his Tanger.. Cars are like women boy, you start with a rat, no matter what you do to it, how pretty you maker up, she's just always gonna be a rat eh’.. Bev burning his eyes into the boy with the double meaning.. Yous takes your times boy, you s’ shop er’ round, makes dang sure she’s all yours, then you s’ just nails er’ ass eh’.. I’ll help you look, no worries mate, we’ll finds you s’ the right one eh’.. Your dream girl, she's out there, wez just needs to prime da bait.. Then, wez ll’ tear her down together and build her back tit's up.. Primed, prepped and ready to purr.. You’ll know every piece of her ass eh’, assembled, stacked to perfection.. Built with your own two bare hands, eh'..

At 28, Drisko rode the Tanger hard along that ragged ridge like the stallion she was.. He wasn’t letting up and never did.. Even from that very first day he revved her 351 Cleveland, 400 horsepower engine.. The day Bev gave the 4 barrel Holly carb, her final adjustment.. Tweaking her tits he’d call it.. Ever since that moment, Driskos held the honours at her wheel.. Bonnie’s waiting, I can’t be hesitating now, if I'm late she’ll have my hide.. Pushing the throttle one hair harder to tempt God and beat the clock..

Drisko might be a little slow, as a boy from the Cape, but he hedged his odds on Bonnie, as opposed to God, as to who’s wrath would be worse, if he was late, especially today.. He poured another pound of pure horsepower onto the little black pedal, attached to the linkage rod, that shot up through the engine firewall, on past the flange of the headers, shimmed up beside the chrome plated valve covers and attached to the throttle linkage.. The Tanger sat up straight away, reared her gorgeous face, and spit up a shower of sifted golden sun setting dust..

The covered bridge ahead straddled Black Water River, the sign danger pending, bridge narrows, the S, prominently displayed to warn of the turns.. Drisko, hits her hard, the tires grab, exact, on the mark where the dirt meets the black top, connecting the north and south legs of the pass.. After swishing and sliding through the S turns, the tires squeal and the speedo surge’s to 110 in seconds, I can’t be late, he’s frantic..

Racing, gearing up and down the back side of Cripple Creek Pass, along the snaked path of the monstrous, mountainous oceanfront ridge.. Sharp left, then a quick right twisting turning up and down the narrow dirt trail and high up into Cripple Creek Pass.. Then the hard power break, twisting her almost onto two wheels as the Tanger swerves, shifts then slides out of the dust ball donut, with Drisko controlling her every move.. The Tanger stopping perfectly into the parking lot of the Oobbew family general store.. THE BLACK WATER EMPORIUM, the neon sign reads, family owned, since 1903..

Drisko, sitting, breathless, resting, pounding the beat onto the Tangers tiny steering wheel, head flopping, listening to the final beats of Colin James as they're doing their Voodoo Thing.. Colin driving, wailing, obnoxious amounts of venomous power into his mighty ax.. Drisko pounding, screeching out the final verbatim, intensively out of his shattered mind.. Well she made me dance and she made me scream. Did she give me some of that Voodoo Thing. The Voodoo Thing. Oohhh my Voodoo Thing..

As the song ends he grabs his keys in this stylish way, as repetitious as always, with a toss and a grab at the same time, releasing the door handle.. With a flick of his wrist, the door opens as the keys fall perfectly onto his risen first finger, centering it into the key ring.. Dangling it like a trophy, reflecting the horse logo of the Mustang.. Shining into Drisko's piercing ice blue eyes, reflecting them back through the tinted shades.. A hip check into the door, applying the perfect amount of weight as force, into the shift.. The structure contracts to the door.. Securing it into the latch, gently, quietly and precisely as he has with his Tanger, for the last twelve years..

Drisko's conscious he has little time to relieve Bonnie at the cash.. He’s oblivious to anything going on in the parking lot, anything on the pass or anything really at all.. He’s pumped, feeling the rush of his heroic drive, in along the tattered cliff edges of Cripple Creek Pass.. Thinking, remembering, that one little spot, his heart pounding, I almost lost it there.. Probably should had hit the pedal just a little harder, he laughs it off and heads to the entrance of the Emporium's door.. Grabbing at his sun soaked and tattered locks, brushing them back through his fingers, across his sculptured head, in through his textured scalp.. The old Dodge pick-up stuck out like a sore thumb once his eye caught it, a stranger, from off the Edge.. Meaning not from the Cliff, not from Cripple Creek Pass, Drisko, guessing with some certainty..

No one comes to the Edge, no one ever, no tourist traps here, no signs for them to find us, it’s too far out.. Even the cops don’t come out here, too dangerous of a road, too much of nothing to see and a lot less to do.. This part of Newfoundland, Drisko laughs to himself, you only come here to die eh’, cause it’s dead here.. The truck passes Drisko a little too slow for comfort.. The tinted windows of the dirty old, worn out, white pickup covered the drivers face.. Drisk could almost make out the profile and at first glance, it didn’t look good.. Drisko has lived on the Edge for twenty eight years, something felt off, whats you doing on the Cliff's, his minds bending.. The Voodoo Thing, still howling in his brain..

Drisko got the 67 Mustang for a good price, he tracked her down out of Louisiana.. A U.S. car, no rust and only thirty seven thousand on her, so good low miles.. He found it on an estate sale and put in a bid for $2100.00 Canadian and got it.. Paid the freight, customs and taxes, he was into the car for $3200.00 Canadian.. It was in rougher shape than he had hoped for, but nothing they weren’t going to do anyway.. All the parts were there, great engine, tranny and drive train and the car was straight.. The engine fired straight up and the beauty ran like a top.. We'll throw another three into her Drisko, his uncle Bev advised him.. The wheels, paint and interior, if we do the work eh’, cleaned, ground up, restored, she'll be worth thirty five, forty thousand buck's fer ya eh’, dar on du road.. Drisko inhaling Bev's east coast drawl, their lingo, talkin from the Edge, he gleamed..

To a car buff, a ground up restore, well it’s almost like, the messier it is, the more fun n’ the restore is.. So when Bev and Drisko picked up the car from the Canadian Customs compound in St. Johns that cold November evening, they were ecstatic.. Drisko was only early teens when he bought that car, so Bev hooked the trailer up to the old pickup and dragged her back to the Edge for Drisko.. But not a single piece got touched on the reno, that Drisko didn’t have his hands on.. He was just a kid but he scrimped and saved and paid cash for every part of it..

He photographed every detail, before and after.. Then he photo logged into albums, with notes, dates and all the details.. The complete tear down and the ground up restore.. Hundreds of pictures of him and Bev, him and Bonnie, him and his younger sister Rose.. Although Drisk did the work, Rose was the brains of the outfit, the negotiator.. She did all the research, tracked down and called for all the parts.. She knew the Tanger one side to the other, personally, affectionately and every piece of her, intimately..

As Drisk approached the white pickup, thinking, this boys off the edge.. Only feet from the driver’s door the old truck sped away, puffin smoke.. Leaving Drisk staring in wonderment, strange, tourist.. He surrenders the thought and heads into the Emporium and into Bonnie.. How is the day going, he asked, chipper.. Bonnie replying with a barrage of, did you do this and did you do that and go here and there, Drisk mouthing the words yes, as she continues.. You listen to me Drisko, she prepares him, this is an important night for me eh’, you better get your shit right, then one last, did you, and poor Drisk lost the edge.. Falling deep into his trance, the Tanger losses control and right there its gone, big flying dive straight off the ragged edge of Cripple Creek Pass..

The lyrics busting out into his brain, She's gonna make you dance, she's gonna make you sing. Then she'll give you some of the Voodoo Thing.. Colin, screaming, verbatim the words into Drisko ears, Drisko listening intensively as he sees her, the Voodoo Thing.. Right there, into the Black Water River, a full gainer, as the Tanger breaks through the rushing water, Drisko lets out a silent yell.. No, no Bonnie screams, waking Drisko from his dream and back into Bonnie's nightmare.. Well kinda no, Drisko grabbing for words, but with a possible, yes, I mean yes.. Bonnie, foot tapping, arms mounted at her waist, then crossed below her breast, her face scrunched in one of those, I’m not really a human, kinda indication looks.. No, no she says calmly, then she burst blabbering into tears..

Bonnie, baby, he holds her close, everything will be ok, I got it all arranged eh’, I know how important this day is to you and me.. Go home, get your bath, relax, do your hair and nails, get all that girly thing going eh’ and then get ready to have a beautiful night.. Bev will be here round six to relieve me, I’ll pick you up by eight.. We got the reservations and everything is set up perfect as planned and it's all top secret eh’, hush, hush, only the gang knows.. It’s all cool baby, all cool, I gots this..

Drisko was young, good looking and knew how to schmooze his lady.. They’ve been together since he was fourteen.. She was his girl when he bought the Mustang.. She grew up in that car, she became a woman in that car, it was almost as much a part of her as him.. He just held her, soft, rocking her, holding her.. He’d lean in kissing her neck, her ears.. Slowly, as she drifts into his arms, he kisses her cheek, then finds her mouth, and find it wet.. He kisses her, she responds, inviting him, probing her now, deeper, allowing her juices to ignite, as they did.. Every things cool baby, Drisko's got you, it's all covered.. He kisses her as he slowly slides her out the front door of the Emporium, ding ding, ding ding four times it chimes..

Drisko retreated to the back of the store, descending the stairs in two at time strides, after sending Bonnie on her way.. Back into the storeroom, he hits the glow light switch, to power up.. He steps up, then reaches his hand high above the furnace ducts, twisting the hand in deep, to recover his stash.. Boyer's Aspirin, the big bottle slid gracefully from its perch high above the storeroom floor, as the music fills the room.. Drisko slides the jar down, as he steps back off the plastic crate he over turned to step up on for his leverage..

Kicking the crate to the furnace frame wall, he searches inside the jar as he rips at the lid.. Tossing it onto the old wooden work bench counter top.. Losing itself into the colours, of years, of spilt paints, oils and grease.. His two fingers still wet from Bonnie, as he probes the bottle, similar as he did to her only moments ago.. The fingers pinching at the booty inside, as they grip at it, in a scissor effect, the quadraphonic speakers ignite.. He gently retreats the two digits, slightly twisting to hold the grip, as the plastic baggie simply is revealed.. Death defying, decibels breaking, sound shattering, dual hammered Pioneer SX650 Audio Speakers from the receiver and the Blaupunkt digital cassette recorder..

He unfolds the cargo, rolled sideways like a tiny sleeping bag, folded in the center, allowing it to stuff neatly into the bottle opening and easily be retrieved.. He unrolls it, the four turns to allow the tiny clear plastic bag to lay flat on its back, upon the work bench, while the final fold releases itself to the opening.. The stash displayed clearly inside the plastic container.. He reaches in and heaves out a huge bud of perfect proportion, Newfie Kush.. He twist it in his fingers rolling it between the thumb and the first and second digit and ever so lightly every once in a while he'd extend it over to the third finger.. His process, the way he always did it, but tonight these bombs were special..

He dropped the bud into his little palm grinder.. This little three set grinder only three inches in circumference and two inches deep.. The bottom section contained the final product the dust held between the base and the screen, the center section held the grind, the weed, the stash that Drisk would smoke.. Then the third section was the teeth, the grinder of the machine.. Drisko filled the teeth, attached it to the other two parts and sealed it together with a revers twist..

Grabbing the machine with his two hands he applied a force twisting action between the top and the bottom of the contraption and voila, magic.. They don’t grow shit like this anywhere on this whole fuckin planet, east or west coast, nord fuckin nor soud, word, him thinking out loud.. He hits power on, play button as the cassette lights up to ignite.. He reaches to the top draw of the old wooden desk yanking it out, digging for his Zig Zag rolling papers.. Colin, the Voodoo Thing, they just suddenly appear.. Way down south, where the Mango's grow. Deep in the swamp down in the Bayou. There's a little story that's never been told...

Drisko falls back onto the strategically placed plastic container, banging it gently against the cool grey coated galvanized steel shell of the furnace, as it echo’s.. The words pounding inside of him.. Feeling the cold of the steel from the fan that tried to keep the Emporium cool during the rare summer heat waves.. The old field stone basement, was a true reflection of time, scattered haphazardly, strewn throughout were priceless artifacts.. Antiques and collectibles, old cans, tools, signs hanging everywhere, Coca Cola, Alpine Cigarettes, Valvoline Oil.. Years of vintage steel, plastic, paper and glass advertising paraphernalia, true collectible junk, worth a small fortune..

There, above the work bench, the small neon, Orange Crush glow light, attached to the switch, it beamed as it hummed, as the song took in the light.. He lights the joint and inhales the smoke, staring deeply into the orange ray, fading, easily into his trance, the music, the song, he exhales the toxic cloud.. The visions, the thoughts, the pain, evaporating slowly, gracefully, gently through his brain, that Voodoo Thing. She moves like the wind got the fire in her eye.. Well she can.. Maybe the stories were true, he thought, although Drisko always felt, the newspapers were just plain wrong, it held the anger in him, the song pounding it out, pounding it, pounding, The Voodoo Thing.. Just a bad decision, one bad move he thought, one he’ll live with all his life, but maybe his dad wasn't drunk at the wheel..

Today was a special day, June 10th. the day twelve years ago, that Bev fine tuned the Holly carbs and Drisko officially drove the car out of the shop.. Its maiden voyage you could say and a cause for celebration.. But in contrast to that, today, fourteen years earlier that Drisk lost both of his parents in a tragic car accident.. See Drisk wanted the Tanger on the road to honour them, but now it does nothing but pains him, but because of Bonnie he puts on a good front..

See, the like new, thoroughly maintained, totally mint conditioned, two door, 67, green, Ford Mustang coupe with a 351 Cleveland, V8, 4 speed, slap stick, factory spec’ed clutch that Drisko's dad got two years earlier.. Left down from Drisko's grandfather Eric after his passing and was in mint condition.. The exact same one, old granddad bought straight off the showroom floor.. Seems she was that night, now being tortured with pride by her owner, driver and drunken master.. There in the passenger side equally intoxicated, his mother Ellen.. As in Drisko’s dream the reality of it all unfolds for him, as he hits the toxic cigarette again, then exhales the poisons..

The covered bridge ahead straddled the Black Water River, the sign danger pending, bridge narrows, the S, prominently displayed to warn of the turns.. Drisko’s dad, hits her hard, the tires grab, exact, on the mark where the road on Cripple Creek Pass had given that tragic day.. The deep crevasses ahead were well marked, but in the darkness of the cliff’s, the night took them to water’s edge.. As in his dream, poor Drisko, his dad had lost the edge, his Mustang losses control and right there, it’s gone, The big flying dive, straight off the ragged edge of Cripple Creek Pass, right before the covered bridge, right into Black Water River.. A full gainer, as the Mustang breaks through the rushing water, right into the mouth of the Atlantic, that was that, they were gone..

The family, the town, the police searching endlessly, with no clue, the animal simply grew fins and swam away with the ocean current.. The photo in the St. John's Tribune showed the streak of green paint on the outer wooden beam of the covered bridge, tire tracks heading obviously up to and disappearing exhaustively, cut deep into the thinness of the air beyond Cripple Creek Pass.. The photo of the plaster casting of the tracks, matching the SR75/250/15 BF GOODRICH POLY/MAX steel belted tires recently purchased for the Mustang.. The Chief of The St. John’s Police, needed no caption, The Tire Tracks Matched, the 67 Mustang, careened off the Edge..

The Police tracking the last hours of the couples night.. Witnesses reported, they were both well beyond the legal alcohol limits and the Officer added, he was surprised they made it this far.. The car, the legend, and Drisko’s family and life for him had disappeared into the mighty Atlantic, at Black Water River, from the cliffs of Cripple Creek Pass.. No one that ever knew Drisko, wondered why he’d push the pass so hard, everyone knew why, he was looking for the answer.. The right speed, velocity, the right angle or defect, the right moment, the perfect timing, the absolute answer to what could had gone wrong..

Even down to the same song they were listening to.. He'd play it over and over again, there at the exact spot.. The Voodoo Thing, he'd hit play, and play, and rewind then play, Colin hitting on the leads, then in a vocal destruction banging the tune out, the notes, the timing, the song keeps running him, the man, the Voodoo Thing he ran with it, the devil in him, the hell he's lived with.. Drisko takes a final toke of his joint, crushes it into the filthy antique Budweiser Beer ashtray.. Custom moulded and designed original, master craftsmanship, of the original Bud girl pin-up doll, arched backwards and complete with huge protruding breast, resting, wasted upon the old work bench.. Then he tosses the roach into an old Benjobbie primer paint can.. He then heads back up the old wooden squeaky staircase to the back of the store, ping ping, ping ping, it chimes four times, this time it chimed for Rose..

Drisko wasn't stupid and definitely wasn’t slow but, his years of high school were wasted in the local parks, back alleys and billiards halls, his punk days.. After his mom and dad perished on Cripple Creek Pass, he was lost, running with the Devil and life had taken its toll on young Drisko.. If not for Bonnie and uncle Bev, Drisko and Rose's life would have completely tumbled into the rock shoals of the Black Water River.. Along with their mother and father and Drisko's dream car, his Tanger.. Both children had to fight their way through life depressed and despaired as much as it took Drisko, it took Rose also.. She turned to drugs, in search of anyone’s love, she got kicked out of high school and got pregnant by someone that just took her one night in her wasted stupor.. A man she never even knew she said, she was with him for twenty minutes one night as she was passed out, unfortunately or not she miscarried..

Drisko himself dropped in and out of school, he'd work some job, get fired, go back to school, never quit knowing where he fit.. But Drisko loved his mechanic shop class, fixing up tearing down, he knew cars.. It took Drisko an extra year to graduate high school than his other friends and peers.. Him