The Mustang Chronicles Volume 1

Daimon Saint Jaimes

Description

THE MUSTANG CHRONICLES, VOL. 1: ROCKETT '68 is a literary, lyrical action novel written in the Picaresque tradition. The story unfolds from the perspective of the hero, or villain depending on your opinion about such matters, in the first-person present tense. Gripping, taut prose intertwines with more lyrical passages like a singular wine perfectly paired with its course. For connoisseurs and casual readers alike, this novel serves up a savory, stimulating read.

TMC Vol. 1 takes place at the zenith of 1960's America and explores the zeitgeist, counterculture, cars, and music that defined a generation and indelibly influenced American culture. TMC Vol. 1 pays homage to 1960's pop Americana in fascinating detail, all the while moving readers inexorably toward the novel's fantastical conclusion. Keep your eyes peeled and intellect at the ready–deeper meaning, subtlety, and nuance abound.

The novel's episodic style eschews linear constraints, along with the well-worn flat trajectory from introduction to conclusion whence all tangents are neatly tied together and presented dutifully at the end–not unlike a dog presenting a ball to his master for a routine game of fetch. You will find no such mundanity in The Mustang Chronicles, Vol. 1: Rockett '68.

Just read it. You'll be glad you did.

www.themustangchronicles.com

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Thrillers
• Supernatural
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 16 novembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456627690
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Table of Contents

~ Full-Title Page ~ TMC1 Paperback ~
~ Author's Note ~ Half-Title Page ~ Singularity ~
~ Epigraph ~


CHAPTER 1.1 + CHAPTER 1.2
CHAPTER 2.1 + CHAPTER 2.2
CHAPTER 3.1 + CHAPTER 3.2
CHAPTER 4.1 + CHAPTER 4.2
CHAPTER 5.1 + CHAPTER 5.2
CHAPTER 6.1 + CHAPTER 6.2
CHAPTER 7.0

~ Review TMC1 Online ~ TMC Web+SM ~
~ About TMC1 Paperback ~ TMC1 Art by DSJ ~
~ About DSJ ~ Dust-Jacket Blurb ~
~ Full Copyright ~ Back Cover ~















CHAPTER 1.1: PETTY’S
One August, 1968.
I am Picaro. “Get outta my way or git run over.”
“Mister, I don’t want no trouble!” He flits his hands back and forth chest-high.
I gun it. 500 ponies scream. “Then get outta my way.”
No movement. I gun it again and slam up into First. Pop it good. Figure leaping. Tires smoke. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. Down into Reverse. Pop it mild. Stab the brakes. Flick it into Neutral. Stomp the sissy brake and leave her running.
I jump out. Walk through the ragged hole. Now that bastard is standing in front of the cash register, staring wildly. He musta run around and come in some back door.
“Dumb move.” I sneer. In a flash I have the sawed-off outta my holster and one of his eyes on each side of the bead. Click Click . Hammers cocked. My trigger finger points straight out pressed hard against the trigger guard.
Blood drains from his face. I motion up with the muzzles. “Up.” He stabs his hands above his bastard head. Looks all panicky. I level the sawed-off down to his bastard chest. “Gonna have to give me the goodies in the register now, Pal. Sack it up.”
He grabs a brown bag and turns around. My eyes stay glued to his back. His right elbow moves wildly. I grab blindly at the shelves to my left. Shove everything I can get my left hand on into the backseat.
My new pal’s elbow slows. He tries to snigger some bills into his pants pocket on the sly.
“All of it! Now!” He jumps at the suddenness of my booming voice. Piss starts running down his right trouser inseam. Jesus. I hate pussies. I raise my muzzles back up. “Turn around.” He does. Fear blots each of his eyes, now again one on each side of the bead. They transfix on mine. “Up.” He does.
“Throw in a pack of Reds.” He keeps his left hand in the air and grabs a pack from under the counter. The pack shakes chest-high in his right hand. “In the bag.” He does like he’s about to fall off some balance beam. “Now fold the top and toss it here, easy-like.” He does. I catch the top lefty and sidearm it onto the front passenger seat.
I keep my bead. Grab blind into the cold case behind me. Throw a six pack of cans into the back seat. Gotta bail before this pussy has a chance to do something stupid. He already pissed his pants. Standing there like no kinda man. Hands shaking below the ceiling.
Ponies stand ready. I uncock click click and reholster. Glare that bastard down. Jump back into her. Slam the door. Shift down into Reverse. Gun it. Tires smoke. Glass shards fly. Pussy ducks behind the counter to shield himself from the shrapnel.
Shelby’s front end flies out of the ragged hole. Tears over the storefront’s remnants. I punch her clutch and slam up into First. Pop it good. She spins around on a dime. Tires wail. Choking cloud falls behind. We roar out onto the highway.
I peel open a PayDay bar. Shove it in my grill and start chompin. Pull down hard into Second. Sun glints off the chrome sideview. No hard feelings about Petty’s Gas & Goodies. Fading fast now up in the rearview. I shift up hard into Third.
Adrenaline pumps. I lope Shelby up to ninety five. Keep her wrapped out in Third. I love her throaty roar. Almost perfect. Hold her steady just above 4200 RPM. Scenery flies. Blow past Soldier’s Summit. Then fast down the other side. Shelby’s just achin to go balls out. And so am I. I wish I had me one of them free-loving hippie chicks right about now. Horny enough to turn a couple of nice girls to the dark side.
Gotta focus.
I keep Shelby under 100. Don’t want her blowin her cool after bashin the hell outta that coward’s puny little store.
∞ ≈ ∞
Time for a stop at old Binnsey’s place. Figure it’s about 100 klicks. Plenty of high-test Tetraethyl Leaded to make it there. And then some, courtesy of Petty himself. That bastard filled Shelby to the brim before running to shield his store. He’s lucky he threw in the pack of Reds and didn’t do anything stupid. I woulda blasted a barrel apiece at both pumps leavin if he had.
That pussy pissed himself for chrissake. All weak up between the knees. I’ve seen girl scouts stand taller. To a fatass little bully who swiped a box of cookies. 4300 RPM. Shelby’s blasting straight and strong down the centerline. Probably spitting splinters out of her grill. But no signs of trouble. I flick the knob to turn on the radio. Punch the second button. Jim Morrison belts Riders on the Storm out over Shelby’s roar. Robby and Ray lilt the melody along flawlessly behind old Jim. Right proper.
Maybe Binnsey’s got a better stereo. I fuckin hope. I pop the tab off what turns out to be a Coors Banquet. Chuck the tab out the window and take a pull. Right proper on my parched throat. Taking what’s mine’s a thirsty business. Hold the can and the wheel with my left hand. Shift soft down into Fourth with my right. Ease Shelby up to a hundred and ten.
She’s gonna hold. And that’s pretty fucking alright.


CHAPTER 1.2: BINNSEY'S PLACE
I whip Shelby’s rear end around. Fishtail right. Spray gravel up good against the massive corrugated metal wall. Spin her around parallel to it. Stomp the sissy brake and slip her into Neutral. Gun the engine one last time.
Sundown melts away behind mountains to the west. The last of my adrenaline rush melts with it. I feel a calm satisfaction. Reflect in slow motion on today’s exploits. Every vivid detail. Back to the now. I cut the ignition and look straight ahead.
Old Binnsey comes tearing around the corner of his metal behemoth. He’s a stout man. Like someone fertilized an oversized bowling ball til it sprouted barrel legs, ham hock arms, and a well-proportioned head. Topped with a thick tousle of salt and pepper. Hair cropped short. He may be stout, but he’s quick in bursts. And he’s closing fast.
His squinty eyes draw a bead through thick glasses. I pop myself outta Shelby. Whip back my braid and kill the lights. Binnsey recognizes my silhouette against the gathering dusk. His barrel legs stop pumping. Ham hock arms stop mid-swing. A smile rises like a waxing crescent moon lopsided on his face.
“Paco, you rat bastard! You gave me half a heart attack!”
I stab the mottled end of a Red between my lips. Whip out my Zippo lighter. Flick it open and spin the wheel. Light the white end. Take a long draught. Sneak a peek at the engraved Semper Fidelis logo as I exhale. Snap the lid shut to kill the flame.
“Good to see you too, Binnsey old chap. Maybe next time I’ll ride in on a tricycle. Save your heart.”
“Jesus Paco… what now?” Binnsey looks at the jagged marks on Shelby’s front end. He squats and semi-circles it. Back and forth like a taut little sumo sizing up his opponent.
Binnsey is one of only three men who ever dared call me Paco. Or bastard. Or anything else besides “Sir” or “Picaro,” not counting the ladies. After two tours slogging through the stink together in Vietnam, watching each other’s backs, Binnsey’s earned the lifetime privilege. The other two, well. They’re both dead.
As for the ladies, well. They can choose. “Baby” and “Darlin” and “Sugar Daddy” or “Whaledick”… Gotta get laid son. Binnsey snaps me out of it with his pitchy, oddly adolescent voice.
“Jesus Paco.” He’s already repeating himself. I haven’t been here more than five minutes.
“Just a few scratches and a bent bumper.” That’s all I see.
Binnsey shakes his head incredulously. Stares at me like I’m some kinda heretic. Mustangs are a religion to this man. Like their all his blessed children somehow, every fuckin one. He’d rather sail a screaming infant down a river than see any harm done to a proper pony car.
“Next time use a Camaro, for chrissakes!”
God, I love this man.
I flick the Red butt into the gravel.“I know where and how to punch through the side of a shack. She runs right as rain, Binns. I’m tellin ya. Not leaking a thing. She tracks straight as an arrow, maybe out half a degree. Pull her in and look for yourself.”
I toss Binnsey the keys. He shakes his head and ducks tightly into Shelby. Fires her up and pulls her around the corner. I walk behind and into the gaping maw of Binnsey’s shop. The place is big enough to park a dozen tyrannosaurs three by four. I slide the massive corrugated door shut.
Time to get down to business.
∞ ≈ ∞
It’s been a good while, so I size the place up. It mirrors Binnsey’s methodical manner. Ready for all contingencies. Mustang carcasses in various states of dissection line the floor next to the right wall. Stacks of tires jut up toward the ceiling along the back wall. A rack above holds a cache of wheels and assorted suspension parts.
A gaggle of machine tools stand sentry in the left rear quadrant. Exhaust pipes and headers hang from hooks high on the left wall. Axles, springs, gears, and drivetrain components stuff large cubby holes high on the right wall, accessed by a rolling ladder. Cannibalized fenders, hoods, monocoques, and assorted body parts dangle from sturdy hooks in the ceiling. If these were human parts, Mary Shelley would be proud.
But Binnsey’s medium is Mustangs—not mortified flesh. Four kick-ass Stangs stand ready in a smart row in the center of the shop. Another stands on a hypotenuse of the right front corner