by Rehder, Ben
As the applause slowly ebbed, Stubbs adjusted the microphone. The opening line of a speech was always the most important one, and Stubbs was up to the task. Using the deepest, most charismatic voice he could muster, he said, “I wanna welcome y’all to Houston…where great Americans still recognize the value of freedom!”
The crowd went berserk.
Right on cue, thousands of red, white, and blue balloons dropped from the rafters. Someone backstage cranked the music to a deafening level. Men in Stetsons proudly waved flags and banners. The pandemonium lasted a full minute. Stubbs simply waited, beaming, enjoying every last moment of it.
Finally, just as the auditorium began to settle down, a buxom blonde girl wearing miniscule shorts, a tight NWA T-shirt, and a cowboy hat yelled, “We love you, Dale!”
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Dale replied cheerfully.
That elicited a booming round of good-natured laughter, followed by more hearty applause.
“In fact, I love all of you,” Stubbs continued, taking the microphone in hand like a television evangelist. “Each and every one of you is a soldier in the battle to keep our great country strong.”
Another eruption, almost as long as the first. He expected it; he’d carefully crafted his speech to draw reactions at various key moments. You had to control the audience, just as you controlled your pacing and your content. Sometimes, though, you needed a little help, and that’s why Stubbs had asked one of his assistants to plant the blonde girl in the third row. Just a little parlor trick to get him off on the right foot. Now Stubbs raised one hand, palm outward, and the audience grew silent. It was as impressive as Moses parting the Red Sea.
“It’s apparent that we’re all in a great mood this morning, and for good reason. The National Weapons Alliance, I’m proud to say, is stronger today than it has ever been. Granted, we’ve faced treachery on many fronts in the past decade. In the nineties, a weak-minded and short-sighted president attempted to usurp the power of the American people.”
Boos all around. Stubbs nodded sympathetically.
“More recently, misguided cities and counties, and even a few states, tried to sue the gun manufacturers out of existence. But were we daunted or discouraged or defeated? No sir! We did what our daddies would’ve done. We persevered! We fought back, using the second-most effective weapon we have: our God-given right to vote. From state capitals around the nation, all the way to Washington, our voice was heard as one—and that voice said THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE TO KEEP AND BEAR ARMS SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED!”
The audience sprang to its feet. A standing ovation! Quoting the Second Amendment was always a sure-fire winner. This outbreak was the longest one yet! Stubbs basked in the glow and waited for the calm before he proceeded.
“Now, it seems, we are in a position to ensure liberty for generations to come, for our children and our grandchildren. We have a friend in the White House—a great man who understands that we, the common citizens, must always remain vigilant as we stand guard against tyranny. He’s one of us, my friends, and you have yourselves to thank because YOU PUT HIM THERE!”
Applause for ten seconds. About what Stubbs had expected because, let’s face it, the president did have certain flaws. His intelligence was questionable. His diplomatic skills were suspect. He was often nervous and clumsy in front of a camera. Plus, to get picky, he didn’t even have a gun rack in the truck he used on his ranch. What kind of message did that send? Ah, well, you did your best with what you had, and one of Stubbs’s jobs was to make the NWA’s strengths appear indomitable.
“But, as we have all learned over the years, we cannot become complacent. We cannot rest on our laurels and our accomplishments. The anti-gun zealots and the liberal media are quick to jump on even the smallest crack in our armor. Take the incident last month in Springfield, Massachusetts, where one of our members—Zelda Grimby, a retired algebra teacher—mistakenly thought her postman was a burglar and shot him in the groin. Did the reporters mention that Zelda was fully licensed to own a handgun? No, they did not. Did they mention that Zelda lived in a high-crime area? Somehow they overlooked that. They focused solely on the fact that the mail carrier lost a testicle, and the second one was badly damaged. Yes, it’s unlikely that he’ll ever father children, but”—Stubbs paused for effect, then came back stronger than ever—“I’d say that’s a small price to pay for a strong and well-armed republic!”
Wild cheering proved that Stubbs was right. He had the audience eating out of his hand. Time to wrap this up and get out on a high note. Move on to the barbecue and a cold beer.
“The point is, we must keep up the good fight, and that is the reason we are all here today. We have gathered to show our unified support for a man who, with our help, will be elected the next governor of the state of Texas. I’m speaking of a man who will push to fully expand our Second Amendment rights, making it legal for law-abiding citizens to carry a concealed weapon anywhere in Texas without a permit. I’m referring to a good friend of mine by the name of Congressman Glenn Andrew Dobbins!”
This was the moment the crowd had been waiting for. They quickly began a chant: Daw-bins! Daw-bins! Daw-bins! They waved placards and hand-painted signs. Khaki-clad men kissed khaki-clad women with joyous exuberance. Somewhere in the back, someone played “Deep in the Heart of Texas” very poorly on a trombone.
After a minute, Stubbs tried one of his usual settle-down gestures, but even that didn’t work. He simply had to wait it out, and he didn’t mind at all. If this was any indication, the NWA’s candidate was a shoo-in come November. Finally, after nearly two minutes, the ruckus began to subside.
“Unfortunately,” Stubbs said, “Congressman Dobbins was unable to join us today. But as you know, this is only the first of many rallies to be held in the next few months. Fort Worth. San Antonio. Midland. Abilene. Not Austin, thank you very much.”
Stubbs waited for the chuckles that line merited, and he was amply rewarded. No, Austin, the liberal bastion of Texas, would not be hosting an NWA rally. No way. Not a city that had more anti-gunners than the remainder of the state combined. The rest of Texas—that’s where the NWA intended to spread its message.
“In fact, two weeks from today,” he said, “on Independence Day, we’ll be convening in the heartland of our state…in Blanco County, just outside Johnson City, and I know Congressman Dobbins fully intends to be there to thank each of you for your support. Because make no mistake—it is you, the rank and file, the front-line troops —who are the backbone of our organization!”
Pure pandering, but they ate it up. Audience members slapped each other’s backs and exchanged high fives.
“Speaking of the Blanco County rally,” Stubbs said, switching to a folksy delivery for a moment, “I have a very special announcement to make, and this just tickles me to death.” He paused again to build the drama, studying the crowd with what was meant to come across as genuine affection. “We’ve been holding the location of the rally back as a surprise, and now I can share it with you.”
A buzz was starting to build. This was going to be big, Stubbs had no doubt of that.
“I’m pleased to say that it will take place at a ranch owned by—hold on to your hats, friends!—none other than our newest spokesman, star of our latest radio and television ads, country music superstar Mitch Campbell!”
The audience responded with an outburst unlike any Stubbs had ever seen or heard. Even the gleeful cheers for Dobbins paled by comparison. Stubbs did his best to speak over the uproar.
“Mitch Campbell, I think we’d all agree, is a fine representative for the NWA. His smash-hit song, ‘My Cold, Dead Hands,’ has brought in a quarter-million new members nationally in the last six months alone!”
Was anyone even listening at this point? It was hard to tell above the melee.
“Mitch offers a powerful new voice for responsible gun ownership!”
Lusty female shrieks ascended to the heavens.
“He is a man of ethi
cs!”
Men whistled and stomped and shot imaginary pistols into the air.
“A man of virtue!”
An overweight woman near the front swooned and cracked her head on a speaker assembly.
“A man of strong moral fiber and good old-fashioned Christian values!”
The hall was now a full-on madhouse.
“The kind of man the NWA can be proud to call its own!”
The crowd had taken up a new chant—Campbell! Campbell! Campbell!—and Stubbs knew, without question, that the NWA was about to enter its golden age.
Two hours before Mitch Campbell pumped a two-hundred-grain forty-five-caliber slug into an innocent man, he was in bed, struggling with a massive hangover, trying in vain to remember the names of the naked twin sisters sleeping next to him.
Too much whiskey. Too much cocaine. Too much of, well, whatever those pills were that had made the rounds last night. Mitch hadn’t planned for the party to happen—he’d only invited a handful of his new friends over—but these things had a way of snowballing, everybody wanting to rub elbows with the hottest male vocalist on the country charts. By midnight, the house had been crawling with people. Mitch knew he should’ve thinned it out and toned it down, but damn, where was the fun in that? Hell, he’d earned it, hadn’t he? Sixty shows in seventy days, and now he deserved a little R&R, right?
But, Christ, this morning he was paying the piper. His brain throbbed like he’d just had cranial surgery. His mouth tasted like a hamster had camped out in it overnight. His memory of the evening’s festivities reminded him of one of his trendy music videos: lots of quick cuts and fades, vignettes that lasted mere seconds, bathed in shadow. He had fragmented flashbacks of nude people in the hot tub. White lines on the glass-topped coffee table. Sucking tequila out of some babe’s navel. Had it been one of the twins?
Kathy and Kelly? Lisa and Leslie? Something cutesy like that, he was pretty sure. The girls were still snoozing, or passed out, really, one on either side of Mitch in his king-sized bed. He propped himself on his elbows, trying to ignore the drumbeat in his skull, and surveyed the room.
Three pairs of boots and jeans were scattered on the floor. Panties. Blouses. He looked for telltale condom wrappers—expecting two or three—but spotted none. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Had he gone in completely unprotected, not even a thin layer of latex between him and a paternity suit? Or had he managed to control himself this time, to refuse the bounty that was so lovingly offered?
It brought back a recent conversation Mitch had had with Joe, his manager.
“You cain’t keep humpin’ everything on two legs, Mitch,” Joe said with that harsh East Texas twang Mitch still hadn’t gotten used to. Sounded so damn ridiculous.
Mitch laughed. “Wanna bet? I take vitamins.”
“What I mean is, you shouldn’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Damn, son, you’re a country star, not a rock star. I know the ladies love you and all, but take it easy on the one-nighters, will ya? You got an image to maintain. No more buckle bunnies.”
“But I—”
“Besides, you’re getting married, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And dope, too. Steer clear of that shit. Nothing stronger than beer, ya hear?”
“Ryan Buckley does it,” Mitch pointed out. “Sleeps around and gets high.”
“Now, see, Ryan Buckley is an entirely diff’rent product. He’s the bad boy of the industry. Why d’you think he wears a black hat?”
“Well, then, maybe I should get a black hat. Maybe we should shake things up a little and—”
“Too late. You’re white hat all the way. You’re supposed to be wholesome, Mitch. All-American. God-fearing. The boy next door, ‘cept better looking. You’re lucky they even let you keep the goatee.”
“What about this whole gun gig? The boy next door carries a gun?”
Scroggins shook his head, like he was dealing with a slow child. “Down here they do. As far as country fans are concerned, ain’t nothin’ more American than guns. Ain’t you been paying attention?”
“I still don’t understand why I can’t just be myself,” Mitch whined.
“You do that,” Scroggins replied, “and we’ll both lose a gotdamn fortune. That want you want? Hot one week, out on your ass the next?”
So, yes, all in all, it had taken some getting used to, this whole hat-wearin’, boot-scootin’, gun-totin’, good-ol’-boy act. That’s because Mitch Campbell’s real name was Norman Kleinschmidt, and he’d been born and raised in Middlebury, Vermont. His father was a highly paid industrial chemist, his mother a stay-at-home mom. Back when he was known as Norman, he’d never shot a deer, roped a calf, or chewed tobacco. He’d never done the two-step, and he didn’t know the first thing about tractor pulls, stock-car races, bass fishing, or any of that other redneck crap.
Norman, in fact, had attended private prep school, followed by four years at Dartmouth, where, between pot-smoking parties and Ecstasy-induced orgies, he occasionally attended class. His grades were appalling, but generous donations to the school by Norman’s exasperated father ensured that he wound up with a degree. After graduation, Mitch worked on Wall Street for two years. Wore a thousand-dollar suit every day. Made big bucks. Absolutely hated it. Assholes everywhere.
What he needed, he decided, was something a little more creative. A career where everyone wasn’t so damn uptight. So, to his parents’ dismay, he switched gears and signed on at an advertising agency as a junior-level copywriter. Here, he thought, he could use his brain and his sense of humor. This would be fun and rewarding and glamorous.
His first assignment was to write a thirty-second television commercial for a feminine-hygiene spray called Spring Mist. The project brief specified that the spot should feature “two middle-aged Caucasian women” who were having a “genuine and frank discussion” about “neutralizing feminine odor, not just covering it up.”
Holy Christ.
Norman left for lunch, had five Manhattans instead, and decided not to return.
Two days later, stoned out of his gourd on some outstanding herb, listening to a group called Canker Sore, it finally dawned on him. Of course! It had been so obvious all along. He had never enjoyed anything more fully than the garage band he’d had in high school. They called themselves Pus Bucket, a mixture of rock, neo-punk, and fusion. As far as talent went, they were plenty loud. But Norman did have a voice. Despite his cushy and privileged upbringing, Norman always managed to sound as hauntingly poignant as Kurt Cobain or Alanis Morissette.
I’ll write some new songs! he thought. I’ll cut a demo!
And so he did, ignoring the fact that the odds of making it in the music industry were astronomical. Norman got hold of some wicked meth and wrote ten songs overnight. When he finally had a clear head, he narrowed it down to the best three—“Sweet Love Weasel,” “Say Hello to Woody,” and “Binge and Purge.”
Then he hired some awesome session players and they were in the studio three days later. The recording went flawlessly. He felt certain he had genuine platinum on his hands. The next day, Norman sent press kits—a CD, a bio, and a head shot—to two dozen producers, record-label heads, and managers. Norman was feeling giddy as he dropped the promotional packages into the mail.
Then reality set in.
A month passed. Nothing. Two more weeks. Not a word. Norman made some calls, but he couldn’t get past the iron wall of front-office stooges and peons.
Two months later, finally, a response! A man named Joe Scroggins had scribbled a note across the bottom of Norman’s head shot: You got a face for Nashville. Ever written any country?
Country? Norman thought. Sappy songs about broken hearts and beer joints? Fiddles and steel guitars? You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.
He tossed the note in the garbage can.
Another month passed. Norman sent out more press kits and got nowhere. He was being completely ignored, and it p
issed him off. Don’t these fuckwads recognize talent when they hear it? he wondered. He should do the music industry a favor, he thought, by tracking these jerkoffs down and putting a bullet into each one of their heads.
That’s when he decided to write a country song after all. A catchy little ditty about guns. It started out as a joke, really, just goofing around on his acoustic guitar. Something he noodled around with to make himself feel better. It was full of black humor and bitter revenge fantasies. He mailed it out for no other reason than to give all those assholes a piece of his mind. Nobody could possibly take it seriously.
Nobody, that is, except Joe Scroggins. Joe heard something more. He had a vision. He saw the potential for this tossed-off novelty song to become an American classic.
“It’s a winner,” Joe said over the phone. “But it needs help. Maybe a bit of redirection.”
“What do you mean?” Norman replied, a little stunned. And a little stoned. Was this guy for real? The song was mostly a gag. But Norman decided it wouldn’t hurt to play along.
“I’m thinking it needs to be a tad more patriotic and a bit less, well, homicidal.”
“Yeah?”
“Instead of hunting down record producers, for example, make it terrorists. Then you’ll have something.”
“Terrorists?”
“Got-damn right. They’s big right now. Now, I don’t mean come right out and say ‘Let’s all kill Mohammed’ or some shit like that. Ya gotta be subtle. And pro-USA. Wrap a flag around it, as they say. Guns are what make us strong. Guns prevent crime and keep our country safe. That sorta thing.”
“Anything else?”
“Change the Kalashnikov to a Remington or a Colt. American-made product. Now I realize that’ll gum up your rhyme scheme, but I think it’s for the best. Just rework that whole section. And down in the chorus, where you’re talking about writing epitaphs in blood—make it something about the Constitution instead.”