Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 by Bob Williams
Authors: Bob Williams
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sounds of crying and tears and the other unhappy noises of gunshots and screams and the breaking of necks and the snapping of bones. Somebody’s filling up an ocean of tears out there. No chance in hell for a peaceful life.
Horrors in New Mexico, terrors in Texas, great storms sinking Louisiana and blowing out the Florida Keys. Even New fucking Hampshire of all places. Is anyone safe? All this is terrible.
What can I do? When I woke up this morning I didn’t take one single goddamn drink. You hear me, Crissman? You understand what that means? You are gonna hear my disturbing words right now. Disturbingly sober ring-of-fire type of words I’m spewing out all over the airwaves. I’m vomiting up truth now. Pure, unadulterated, an Everclear truth tsunami I’m spewing out. This is a disturbing sound coming from my mouth. Are you listening?
The Apocalypse is here! I’m sober and I’m awake and I’m feeling every pulse and wave of pain coming forth, like fire spewing out of the mouth of a great beast, a whiff of a dragon’s belch! For years I’ve lived in peaceful squalor in Pahrump, doing my bit to tell the business of truth. For years it’s just been Mama Midnite, the eternal microphone, and me. And the bunker. And the booze. And the guns. Oh, yes, the guns. I’m a survivor. So are you, Crissman, and the others I will not name, and Mama Midnite. You feel me? We are all survivors of the Twilight Zone life that we endure. And what does that mean, really? So, I beat the game so far, I’m up ahead a hundred lives. I’m sitting on a tonnage of gold coins. Full tilt boogie. What now? I have my castle but what now? What now? I can’t do a goddamn thing here—I just have cats and this smirking Crissman staring at me, looking like a...a smug puppy dog, and the others who are more normal but have less balls to come on the airwaves of Radio Midnite. Yes, you are good looking, but good looks aren’t enough in this life. Trust me, I know from personal experience, Crissman. You got to have panache! I’m not afraid to deliver the message to you Midniters. Because you...listen!
That disturbing sound. I hear it now. I’ve always been an empathetic person. Gary Busey, Oliver North, Margaret Thatcher, and the Bee Gees. We are all victims of being too empathetic. Really? Yes! Keep listening. We react by becoming cold and deaf. Only way the sensitive can make it through life. But I must act…because it is time!
It’s the only way. But sometimes we gotta block out those sounds, that awful bit of noise, and start to think. Yes, I have my castle here under the windswept high desert, but I think what to do. I could relax here and play Drunk Jenga with Crissman, learn a new recipe with Mama Midnite, and listen to the world die as all of my network’s contacts disappear one by one from the bulletin board, a mighty black mark placed next to their locations as the desperadoes of the damned take them down while tipping their caps to the applause of a Freak parade.
So, what do I do? I woke up this morning and realized that I’m just a man sitting in a bunker and spewing out here. That’s fine. That’s the way it has to be. I get it. I’m an old hippie former gunrunner CIA affiliated warlord. I get it. I can only do so much here.
Maybe. I’ve been having a disturbing thought.
Well, that’s me. I can’t go out and shoot a Freak in the face, you know. I’d love to. I’d like to see one of them bastards. Screaming about The Black Hand, screaming about The Eighty-Eight, losing their shit and breaking down and bleeding out and turning into a ghoul. I can see broadcasts, I can hear these radio waves bleed out. I’d like to shoot a Freak. I’d like to stand over a Freak, a hole where his face used to be, and watch the smoke creep out the barrel. Yeah. Shoot a Freak for me and Crissman. Can you do that?
Freaks everywhere. Not like the goddamn pinko hippies. Real Freaks. Real pain. Real blood. In technicolor. No bullshit sounds of
Horrors in New Mexico, terrors in Texas, great storms sinking Louisiana and blowing out the Florida Keys. Even New fucking Hampshire of all places. Is anyone safe? All this is terrible.
What can I do? When I woke up this morning I didn’t take one single goddamn drink. You hear me, Crissman? You understand what that means? You are gonna hear my disturbing words right now. Disturbingly sober ring-of-fire type of words I’m spewing out all over the airwaves. I’m vomiting up truth now. Pure, unadulterated, an Everclear truth tsunami I’m spewing out. This is a disturbing sound coming from my mouth. Are you listening?
The Apocalypse is here! I’m sober and I’m awake and I’m feeling every pulse and wave of pain coming forth, like fire spewing out of the mouth of a great beast, a whiff of a dragon’s belch! For years I’ve lived in peaceful squalor in Pahrump, doing my bit to tell the business of truth. For years it’s just been Mama Midnite, the eternal microphone, and me. And the bunker. And the booze. And the guns. Oh, yes, the guns. I’m a survivor. So are you, Crissman, and the others I will not name, and Mama Midnite. You feel me? We are all survivors of the Twilight Zone life that we endure. And what does that mean, really? So, I beat the game so far, I’m up ahead a hundred lives. I’m sitting on a tonnage of gold coins. Full tilt boogie. What now? I have my castle but what now? What now? I can’t do a goddamn thing here—I just have cats and this smirking Crissman staring at me, looking like a...a smug puppy dog, and the others who are more normal but have less balls to come on the airwaves of Radio Midnite. Yes, you are good looking, but good looks aren’t enough in this life. Trust me, I know from personal experience, Crissman. You got to have panache! I’m not afraid to deliver the message to you Midniters. Because you...listen!
That disturbing sound. I hear it now. I’ve always been an empathetic person. Gary Busey, Oliver North, Margaret Thatcher, and the Bee Gees. We are all victims of being too empathetic. Really? Yes! Keep listening. We react by becoming cold and deaf. Only way the sensitive can make it through life. But I must act…because it is time!
It’s the only way. But sometimes we gotta block out those sounds, that awful bit of noise, and start to think. Yes, I have my castle here under the windswept high desert, but I think what to do. I could relax here and play Drunk Jenga with Crissman, learn a new recipe with Mama Midnite, and listen to the world die as all of my network’s contacts disappear one by one from the bulletin board, a mighty black mark placed next to their locations as the desperadoes of the damned take them down while tipping their caps to the applause of a Freak parade.
So, what do I do? I woke up this morning and realized that I’m just a man sitting in a bunker and spewing out here. That’s fine. That’s the way it has to be. I get it. I’m an old hippie former gunrunner CIA affiliated warlord. I get it. I can only do so much here.
Maybe. I’ve been having a disturbing thought.
Well, that’s me. I can’t go out and shoot a Freak in the face, you know. I’d love to. I’d like to see one of them bastards. Screaming about The Black Hand, screaming about The Eighty-Eight, losing their shit and breaking down and bleeding out and turning into a ghoul. I can see broadcasts, I can hear these radio waves bleed out. I’d like to shoot a Freak. I’d like to stand over a Freak, a hole where his face used to be, and watch the smoke creep out the barrel. Yeah. Shoot a Freak for me and Crissman. Can you do that?
Freaks everywhere. Not like the goddamn pinko hippies. Real Freaks. Real pain. Real blood. In technicolor. No bullshit sounds of
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