Tuesday, March 25, 2008


So as some of you may know, I've been writing a little pulp fiction serial called Test Drive over on Shuffleboil for the past few months...but that website recently shifted gears, content-wise, meaning Test Drive (and some other former Shuffleboil refugees) will soon be taking up residence here at The Ol' Blog Shop.

If you haven't been following Test Drive, CLICK HERE to catch up on the story thus far...

...otherwise, hang onto your hats, because this week's episode starts right now...


Through the windshield of the cruiser, Frank saw the biplane descending, saw the Jaguar avoid it by inches, careening in a panicky swerve into the fuselage of a vintage British Spitfire, saw the vehicle’s passengers lurch forward in a burst of airbags...

...while Hombre only saw that Red had stopped moving. He drew a bead and fired, again and again, blowing out her tires, closer every second to the final, orgasmic shot that would finish her forever...

...until Frank grabbed the barrel, trying yet again to wrestle the weapon away. Hombre stomped the brakes and they both lurched forward. A bullet discharged like a thunderclap, deafening in the claustrophobic Crown Vic interior, scorching Frank’s temple with a bright hot lightning bolt of pain. He cried and recoiled, reaching for the heat as Hombre scrambled from the car...

...then, opening eyes he’d clamped shut instinctively, Frank glanced in the passenger side mirror and spotted a nasty black powder burn above his right eye and realized he was still alive.

Launching over the seat, Frank yanked a baton from the state trooper’s belt, muttering, “I’m really sorry about this.”


It was Ray-Ray Alvarez’s third day on the job. The first day had been kinda cool, the second kinda boring and since that morning, of course, everything had pretty much gone to shit. If there had been something in his training about the possibility of a seemingly dead crash victim suddenly lurching to life to attack his rescuer for no reason, he was pretty sure he’d missed it, but even so it was still pretty goddamn embarrassing to be in his current predicament, kidnapped and cuffed with his own goddamn cuffs in the back of his very own goddamn patrol car, and he certainly had no intention of letting some other peace officer find him trussed up like a goddamn hog in such a humiliating, fucked-up scenario -- he knew for a goddamn fact he would never hear the fucking end of it -- and so the second the perps were out of the vehicle, he quit playing dead and swung into action as fast as he could in his compromised, immobilized condition. Thankfully, he’d taken the off-the-record advice of his DEA buddy, Marko, and purchased a back-up piece, currently strapped to his ankle, which, at the time, had seemed like a superfluous macho accessory but now seemed like the smartest purchase of his life.

And, fortunately, the maniac from the Diablo wreckage hadn’t cuffed his wrists behind his back, so it was relatively easy to reach the gun. The tricky part was positioning the barrel so it blew apart the chain connecting the cuffs, and Ray-Ray put several bullets into the floorboard of the Crown Vic before he finally managed to free himself.

And then he was out the door, pumped with the adrenaline of success and righteous fury, dashing across the air show field towards the spot where the Jaguar had rammed the Spitfire. The greasy perp in the sharkskin suit was there now, yanking a voluptuous redhead from the wreckage onto the ground by her long, curly hair, screaming, “Come here, bitch! I wanna talk to you!”

The redhead fought like a rabid coyote, thrashing and snapping her jaws until the perp smacked her across the jaw with Ray-Ray’s 9mm, pinning the woman with his knees on her arms while he forced the barrel of the weapon into her mouth. The rage on the redhead’s face was practically demonic as the greasy perp cocked the hammer of the pistol and snarled, “Remember me, you fucking harpy? Huh? Who am I? Say it...“the love of your fucking life!” Remember? SAY IT!

Ray-Ray dropped into a firing stance and raised his backup piece, but then before he could draw a bead on his target or shout a warning, the lanky perp who’d stolen his security baton suddenly lunged at the sharkskin hombre from his blind side, cracking the club against the maniac’s skull with enough force to drop him to his knees.

Hombre bellowed like a stuck pig, losing his grip on the 9mm as Frank lunged for the piece and Red shot to her feet, yanking her own silver gun from her garter.

“HOLD IT!” Frank demanded, swinging the 9mm back and forth to cover both Hombre and Red. “Now everybody just calm the fuck down!”

“Frank!” Hombre wailed up from the dirt, “We got her, man! What are you doing?”

“Turning her over to the cops...and you too...”

“Goose, please...” Red began.

“Shut up!” Frank said, noticing the barrel of her little silver pistol now pointed at his chest. “Where’s my car?”

And then the Texas state trooper they’d all been too busy to notice cocked his own gun and screamed, “EVERYBODY DROP YOUR WEAPONS! NOW!


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