"Robinette and his crew should be here at any time," Mark said, "I’m going to get into position. Keep watch for me, eh, Trace?"
"Right," Tracy nodded and started peering through the other window, "Claire is in position. No sign of Robinette yet."
Claire Ryan sat down behind the dumpster, knowing that her best defense lied in the fact that she looked like she belonged there. She was able to see the parking lot and was praying that Robinette would show up soon so she could get out of the dirty clothes she was in. It was a relief when the two cars pulled up.
"Two cars," Tracy said, "Robinette is in the expensive one."
"Good," Mark said as he rechecked his rifle and pulled it to the window, "Let’s hope I can get them all before Claire is in danger. How many of them?"
"Four in one," Tracy said, "Two with Robinette. Seven total. They are getting stuff out. Probably going to make the switch."
"Probably trying to figure out where the ones we iced earlier are," Mark said idly, "Let me know when they get the cases out."
"They’re out," Tracy said, "Robinette has one in his hand."
"I’ve got Robinette sighted," Mark said, "I’m going for the kill."
"Goodbye," Tracy said as Mark pulled the trigger.
The high velocity bullet screamed through the air, destroying Walker Robinette’s head before anyone in his gang heard the shot. Mark had already moved and fired a second shot before anyone began to realize what happened.
The others tried to figure out where the shots were coming from, but it was to no avail. A few better-placed shots took most of them down. A final shot removed the skull of the last remaining bad guy.
"One clip expended," Mark said, "Are they all down?"
"Dead as doornails," Tracy said, "Claire is moving."
"I suggest we follow her," Mark said, "Cops will be here in five."
Claire wasted no time in scrambling across the parking lot. She had to step around the rapidly forming pools of blood, but she managed to get the three cases without getting any of the blood on her. She then made a break for the car, beating Mark and Tracy by mere seconds.
"Let’s get out of here," Claire said, "Cops will be here any minute."
"Crack the cases," Mark instructed her, "Tell me what’s in them."
Claire cracked open the first one and found it full of papers, most of them Robinette’s personal accounts and papers that would have put him away for probably the rest of his life, had he survived the attack.
"Nothing valuable to us," Claire said, "Feds might want it though."
"We’ll consider dropping it somewhere," Mark said, "I’ll look at it later."
"This one is dope," Tracy said, "Probably enough to supply the downtown area for a week."
"I think a bonfire is in order," Claire said, "Let’s see if there is any cash in this one."
Claire opened the last case and let out a gasp. She closed the case and thrust it at Tracy, unable to speak. Tracy looked at her, cocking her head and taking the case. Mark looked at them quickly and continued driving. Tracy put the case in her lap and undid the latches.
"Holy shit," Tracy said as she opened it, "Mark, you’d better take a look at this."
Mark looked at the case and nearly crashed the car. The case was filled with packets of 100-dollar bills. Whatever Walker Robinette had been into it was paying handsomely. The case contained over one million dollars in cash. It seems that their foray against Robinette had paid off handsomely. Now the only question for them was what to do with the cash.
The Campground
This story was the product of about four days sitting on the back porch at my in-laws' house in New Mexico. It was the first year I was married and the result of having little to do for a long thanksgiving weekend.
J. Michael Coleman was a character that I'd come up with and messed around with shortly before the first version of The Accidental Immortal. It was one of the last complete stories I did in the first person format, as I finally figured out how to do third person correctly on Undercover, which followed this by a few months.
A few elements of this story have made it into others, especially Mason's history The Accidental Immortal, but mainly it is an interesting and tragic tale that mirrors my warped views of the music industry. It also borrows liberally from the life of Kurt Cobain and other similarly tragic music figures.
In some ways it is my vision of what might have happened had Kurt lived and decided to leave the music business and take off from Courtney. At least that's what it looks like reading it again from a removed view at three thirty in the morning… (Original 2004 notes)
Note: This story shows just how screwed up my head was during that time period. I put Coleman through hell during this story, evidently throwing every rotten thing possible into this man's background. He's a tragic character in a way, and this story is hard to read ten years later. Even so, this is probably the best of the stories I wrote in first person format, mainly because I used the old convention of an outside narrator.
-Rodney 7/27/2011
Chapter 1
The strange camper pulled into the parking lot of the office at around two in the afternoon. Its occupants made a strange sight when they climbed out, looking as tired and haggard as truck drivers after a long haul.
The man looked to be in his mid forties, with graying hair and probably a three-day growth of beard. The woman was young and beautiful, twenty-five if a day, with silky black hair.
She too looked like she had been on a long journey, though she showed it less than her companion. Most likely she had slept some while he was driving.
"Good Morning," I said from my usual chair on the porch, "Been a long drive?"
"Yeah," the man said with a smile, "I think it’s been about a week since we’ve stopped for more than a few hours of sleep."
"Ouch," I said, remembering a few such journeys back when I was younger, "Well, I hope you find the trip worth it."
"It’s all in the traveling," the man said with a shrug, "I like to travel, don’t stay anywhere for long anymore."
"Are we going to stay for a few days this time, Mike?" the young lady asked him, speaking for the first time since leaving the camper.
"Depends on the rates they charge around here," Mike said, "And if they can accommodate the beast over there."
"I reckon that we can handle it," I said, "Though I don’t know if we can provide the power that puppy probably eats."
"Just so long as you sell diesel, it has its own generator that I run for a few hours when the batteries get low," he said with a smile, "Just need some sewer facilities and a big enough place to park."
"You can have the space closest to the building here for 30 bucks," I said, not knowing why I let the odd pair have the space at the tent rate, "Any further out and you’ll block the view for the other campers."
"That works," Mike agreed, "Especially if you can recommend a place to pick up a good cold beer."
"Not a bar for about forty miles," I told him, "But my wife Myrna sells ice cold brews in the store here."
Mike smiled and walked up to me. The young lady, who still had not been referred to by name yet, walked up with him. The closer he got the more I realized I should know his face from somewhere. Now, I kept a look at the wanted posters Myrna kept in the store, though I doubted that he was on the run with the rig he was driving.
I got up and motioned them into the store so we could fill out their registration. He seemed to know the drill and came inside. Myrna looked upon us, but said little. She and I had been on the outs for ten years, but continued together. She ran the store, I ran the campground and that’s the way it’s been. But this isn’t about me. I handed him the card and he began filling it out.
"Amy," he said to the girl while filling it out, "Pick out some provisions while I’m filling this out and paying, OK? If there’s anything you need, grab that too."
"We’ll call it a week," Mike said, "I think this will be a pleasant place to stay for at least that long."
He then proceeded to fill out the card. J. Michael Coleman was his name, or at least the one he filled out for us. Surprisingly, his license was from Tennessee from all places, despite not having a lick of a southern accent.
I’m still not sure where his accent was from, evidently it had been muddled by lots of travel. He pulled out a platinum visa card to pay with, though we waited for Amy to finish shopping before I ran it through the system.
Amy finished with her shopping, and Mike Coleman picked out a case of longneck Budweiser to keep them company. I helped them bring out the purchases to their rig, and Coleman opened the door. I wanted to take a look inside of this large machine and see what it had. It shocked me, really. I was expecting to see a more or less normal Winnebago style camper. This was something truly out of science fiction.
The bed, probably about the size of a queen, extended over the cab and the meager kitchen area. The kitchen consisted of little but a refrigerator, a half stove with what might be considered a toaster oven, and a microwave. What I had perceived from the outside as being a total lack of windows turned out to be false. The entire outer shell was made of a one-way view Plexiglas type of material that let the light in.
The centerpiece of it was the sitting area, featuring a double computer terminal, both with 19 inch screens built in to the wall. It was all secured for travel, and looks like it cost a mint.
The ceiling was lower than I expected, and was the only part that I couldn’t see through. Mike grinned when he saw me looking around curiously. He told me that the communications gear was in that foot or so of space missing at the top. I whistled, realizing that the entire rig must have cost him at least a quarter of a million, maybe more. While I was still gawking at the impressive setup, Mike went into the area under the bed and pulled out a decent size cooler, surprisingly, not one of his namesake ones.
I put the stuff down, and Amy put it away. Mike also dragged out some chairs. He emptied the ice into the cooler and put the beer into it. I helped him carry it outside, figuring that it was the neighborly thing to do. Amy set up the chairs. Surprisingly she set up three, while Mike began the fire.
"Would you care to join us for a while?" Coleman asked me, "Amy makes a mean hamburger and there’s plenty of cold brew."
I thought about it for perhaps half a second before agreeing to join him. Myrna was a singularly horrid cook, and my company was about as welcome to her as a pack of rattlesnakes as of late.
I watched Mike sit down into one of the chairs and pull a beer out of the cooler, handing it over to me. I gratefully accepted and figured I could watch for newcomers just fine from thirty feet away. He pulled one out for Amy, tossing it over to her, and then finally took one for himself. He twisted off the cap and took a long pull of it.
I’ll spare you the conversation of the night as it was mainly getting acquainted stuff, interspersed with a few beers and a lot of cigarettes. It wasn’t until the next evening that I found out who Mike Coleman really was, and that, my friends is where this story truly begins.
Chapter 2
The next day went like most others, Mike and Amy kept to themselves, with her spending most of the day sitting outside reading the latest Stephen King novel, and him staying mostly out of sight, most likely working or playing on the computer station inside the camper. Amy seemed to be the chief chef for the pair, as Mike didn’t touch the food until he ate it.
Coleman came into the store around six in the evening and bought another twelve-pack of beer, since the three of us polished off most of the first case the previous night. Myrna looked at both him and me coldly as she rang up the sale, but said nothing as I went out and sat with Mike and Amy for a second straight night, especially since it got me out of her hair.
I was still trying to place him at this point, I knew for sure that I recognized him from somewhere but it still was drawing blank to me. It was not until the second beer of the night that I got up the courage to ask him where I might have seen him before. Both of them laughed at the question. It seems that it was one that they’d heard numerous times before.
"Probably back in my previous life," Mike said with a smile, "It’s a long time past, and thankfully fewer and fewer people remember it very well. I guess the gray goes a long way towards making people forget about you."
"It often does," I agreed, "Even my own kin seem to have forgotten about me. I see my son maybe twice a year."
"I haven’t seen anyone in my family for about ten years," Mike said, "Don’t think I have much interest in seeing them again. I’m not sure they want to see me either. I was always the black sheep of the family."
"My Dad died years ago," Amy said, "Mom does little now but drink and bring men home from the bar. But you make your own family as you go along."
"Just have to be careful," Mike said with a sigh, "Because even a self made family can often blow up in your face."
It was just about then that one of the local kids pulled into the parking lot, the radio blaring on that station that plays the best of the 80’s, 90’s and beyond. I recognized the song, but I’ll be damned if I can place the title.
I did remember the band as it was my son’s favorite all through high school back in the early 90’s. I could see that Mike recognized it too. The song was loud and not much to my taste, but I could see that it was stirring up something for Mike Coleman.
Coleman was mouthing the words and playing air guitar, though it was obvious that he actually knew the chords for the song. It was right then I knew where I had recognized him from.
I used to sit in the room reading while the kids watched MTV. One of their favorites was a band called "The Inquisition", led by a young man with long stringy blonde hair. Put a blonde wig on Coleman, take off about twenty years and the gray, and you had the lead singer.
"You’re Justin Cole, aren’t you, Mike?" I asked as the song ended and he came back to reality.
"I didn’t figure you’d remember," Mike said with a wistful smile, "Most people don’t put the old and graying me together with the bleached long hair I wore until just about a decade ago."
"It took me a while," I admitted, "My kids worshipped you and your band when they were in high school. Played your CD’s constantly."
"Yeah," Mike said, "The early 90’s were banner years for me, at least professionally. Personally it was a nice black hole, but then again, the last few years haven’t been a picnic either."
We sat there for a few minutes sipping on our beers. I looked over at him as he lit a cigarette, wondering what made him leave the spotlight the way he did. I considered asking him to tell the story if he was willing, but it took another beer to make me do so. I hadn’t been this social with any of our campers since we bought the campground back in 94, a year after our last kid graduated high school and joined the Army.
I was pondering asking him to tell the story of his success and downfall, but didn’t want to push him. I mean after all, free beer is free beer, and I didn’t want to piss the guy off. Luckily for me Amy decided to ask him for me. It seems that she didn’t know the whole story either, and was just as interested as I was.
"You know, Mike," she said, using the name he signed in with, "You never told me the story of your life either. We’ve been traveling together over a year now, spit it out."
"Sure," he said with a sigh, "I guess it’s time to let you know some things about the man you’ve been traveling with. I’m not sure if you’re going to like it."
"As messed up as my life has been?" She said with a smile, "It’ll probably be a relief to hear stories about someone who was actually successful."
"Success is a double edged sword, babe," he said, "It feels good at first and then comes up and
bites you in the ass."
I listened to this exchange with a smile, wondering just how interesting it would be to hear about such an interesting life right from the lips of the man who lived it. If nothing else, it was going to be a good way to keep away from Myrna for a while.
Chapter 3
"My early life was nothing really special," he started in a rather bland fashion, "My father was a police officer with a nasty drinking problem and a horrid temper. By the time I was 18, I was looking to get out of the place. I had one real passion at that point in time, and that was the music. I knew three instruments by that point."
"How many do you know now?" Amy asked him. I just stayed silent and listened.
"Several types of guitar, keyboards, drums, xylophone, accordion and a bunch of others," he said, "Back then, however, my main ones were guitar, keyboard and drums.
"I auditioned for one of those cookie cutter bands back in early 79, just as I was finishing high school. The name of the band was inconsequential, and I’d prefer to forget about it, seeing as it turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life." "How’s that?" I asked him, "Didn’t it get you into the music business?"
"Yes," Mike conceded, "But the price wasn’t worth it. I was tied into the band for five years according to that contract. The music was complete bubblegum pop. We were pretty much Monkees light for the late 70’s. The only hit song the group ever had was a little ditty called "Right on, Duckie" which still makes my skin crawl to hear."
"It’s just like the New Kids were in the 80’s, the Backdoor Boys were in the 90’s and that god awful group of kids are for today," he added bitterly, "I was not happy. I knew I could write and I knew I could play and sing, but the contract forbid me to do any outside work. I lasted all of 18 months with that horrid group."
"They let you out of your contract?" Amy asked, "Doesn’t sound like record execs."
"It wasn’t," he replied, "They owned me lock, stock and barrel. Thing is, I refused to work with the band, and after they left the charts they started to fall apart. I think all of them are either on drugs or recovering from them except for me."
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