Guest Writer Spot - Sean Patrick Reardon.

November's Guest writer is a friend of mine from Pepperell, Massachusetts.  I got to know Sean earlier this year and instantly enjoyed his stories and writing style.

He's a very talented writer and I hope one day he gets the big break he deserves.  He self-published his novel, Mindjacker, last year and it's available here.

One thing about Sean's stories is that you'll always find plenty of music references in them and the following one is no exception.

Without further ado.....

The Whole Bleedin’ Lot

By

Sean Patrick Reardon

In perfect synch, the Zeppelin tune ends and Foxy Roxy’s body goes limp, landing tits-to-pecs on top of Rory.  He’s wondering how the little pink cowboy hat stayed on her head the whole time, and thinking Zep is the shit, but they never brought it on home like Roxy just did. 

“So?” She rolls off him. “Am I hired?”

He slides a pair of purple tinted Elvis shades over his eyes, snatches the hat and puts it on. “This is a two part interview, love.”

Roxy says, “Cool, anyone ever tell you that you look like the singer from Oasis?”

Rory lowers the shades, looks over the top of them. “Liam Gallagher?”

“Yeah.”

“You think so?” He tosses the hat to her, smoothes down the sides of the brown shag with his hands. Images of Liam and Johnny Quid are flashing through his mind, just like they had everyday for the last year. “Never gave it a thought. Let’s talk about part two.”

#

An hour later, Roxy’s gone, digging the new name Rory gave her and headed to Newbury Street with a grand of his cash to buy clothes for her new gig.  Rory’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, primping, posing, and liking how the black leather pants look like they’re painted onto his legs. He looks down at his crotch, smiles.  Somewhere he read that Plant used to have some chick on the payroll whose only job was to blow dry, talc, and fluff his dick before he donned the leathers.

‘Set small, realistic and achievable goals,’ his shrink had said. Cool by Rory. Anyway, the mansions, cars, jets, drugs, girls, and money would come with time. He strutted over to the open wall safe, pulled out a black notebook, and crossed Girlfriend \ Personal Dick Assistant off the list. 

#

They spend the next three months hitting all the night clubs that matter, creating a buzz, looking the part, acting like they’re the next Kurt and Courtney. Rory’s been laying out lots of green to buy the drinks, drugs, VIP seats. They don’t ever wait to get in, anywhere.  The beautiful people are starting to talk, ask questions, spread rumors and speculate, because Rory and Roxy don’t tell them anything, except they are into something big. It’s top secret, big names, going to blow their minds.

“It’s all about making the scene, love,” Rory keeps telling her. “You know, mysterious like, keep them guessing, enquiring minds want to know and all that.”

He’s on top of the world. Roxy’s been a real find, compared to the other three chicks that answered his add in The Phoenix. If he wasn’t going to be a rock star, he’s thinking talent scout would have been a decent fallback plan.

#

Rory’s still in the leathers, shirtless, chiseled, Rasta colored Rosary beads hanging around his neck. He polishes off the Heineken, keeps staring at the 10x12 photo of him with his kid sister, mom and dad. It was taken two years ago, when they were still alive, and he was still Lance Sobeleski, the spoiled, overweight pimple on high society’s complexion.  Back then, everyone’s giving him a hassle. Shit like, ‘get off your ass, start putting the Yale business degree to use,’ and ‘make something of yourself or the Golden Goose ain’t laying any more eggs’.

It’s been two years since the family jet crashed into the Atlantic on the way to their place in Bermuda. Was it pilot error or mechanical failure? No one was sure. Case closed. Rory’s not sweating it. Far as he knows, there’s no test for contract pilots with terminal brain cancer and shit insurance who are willing to take a dive for 250 G’s to leave behind for their loved ones.

‘You have to believe in the power of you, positive re-enforcement’. The shrink slash grief counselor’s words run through Rory’s mind as he pushes the remote, cranks the volume, grabs onto the mike stand. “Supersonic” overpowers the room. He’s singing along, got it down cold, but he ain’t just standing still like Liam does, he’s working the stand like Freddy Mercury. 

Mid-performance, the handheld lets him know there’s an incoming. He lowers the music, takes the call. It’s another prospect, looking to join the entourage. Things go well. Rory tells him to call back tomorrow to get his answer, and oh yeah, if he gets the gig, he’s got to lose the name. Rory will lay the new one on him. Cheers.

#

The next day, Roxy and Rory are sharing a joint in the recording studio he’s had custom built in the Tudor style house he bought last year.  She’s telling him there’s this dude, a guitar player, wants to meet up.  Rory stares at the pictures Roxy’s spreading out on the control board and thinking this cat has the look he wants for the band. Kind of reminds him of a young Ronnie Wood. If this works out, just a drummer, bass, and rhythm left to go.

Roxy taps the head of the joint on the ashtray, exhales her hit. “I told him all about you, how you’d make a great front man, can sing, write, everything. He wants to meet you Rory…This could be it.”

“Definitely some potential there, but looking good’s only the half of it. He got to be able to play too.”

“He can, been listening to him.” She hands him a purple CD, no labels on it. “Check it out.”

Rory slides the disc into the laptop in front of him, clicks the play icon and turns it up. The guitar riffs playing over the assault on the drum kit have him out of the chair, pacing around the studio, thinking of lyrics and stage moves.

“Well, what do think?” Roxy yells over the music.

Rory looks at her, fading the music with the remote he was using for a mike.

“I think…you need to make sure he can be here tomorrow.”

#

When the doorbell rings, Rory’s so excited he can’t take it no more. He tells Roxy, “You got to answer it, a rock star don’t do such things. Got to set a precedent, let him know who’s the fucking boss. It’s like, you know, a monarchy.”

Roxy heads for the door. Rory double times it to the studio, wanting to make it look like he’s busy creating, doing important shit.

Rory sees Roxy and the dude through the glass wall of the studio before they enter, starts getting into character, practicing the accent he paid a voice coach twenty grand to master. Chump change, compared to what he shelled out to the plastic surgeon and personal trainer during his self-imposed year of seclusion.

“Rory, this is Robbie Carleton, the guitar player I was telling you about.”

They shake hands and Rory’s thinking he don’t want a Robbie in the band, decides if the dude gets the gig, he’s going to be Rip Robinson.

Robbie slides the gig bag off his shoulder. Rory’s trying to guess what he plays, hoping to see a Gibson, maybe a Rickenbacker. He sure as shit wasn’t expecting the shotgun Robbie pulls out and points at Rory’s head.

Rory’s looking over at Roxy, wondering when she’s going to say something and stop acting so blasé about what’s going down.

“What’s this all about, mate? Whatever you do, don’t hurt her.”

Roxy tells him, “Shut the fuck up…Lance. Robbie’s doing all the talking from now on, and please, lose the stupid fucking accent. And oh yeah, you call me Roxy one more time, I’m going to personally cut off that poor excuse for a cock you got.”

Robbie’s got the end of the shotgun under Rory’s chin, pushes up on it. “Let’s go shithead, on your feet, get this over with.”

#

“Rock ’N’ Roll Queen” starts playing from Rory’s handheld that’s on the table in the middle of the entertainment room. The caller ID voice starts interrupting the tune, telling everyone Franklin is calling.  Rory’s staring at the framed Rock-n-Rolla poster on the wall. And Johnny Quid’s staring back, with double guns blazing in a Jesus Christ pose. Rory knows this is a sign, a moment of divine intervention.

He looks at Roxy, making prayer hands while pleading. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you have to let me take this. It’s a big lead, a producer listened to my demo, wants to meet up. I don’t take it, I’m fucked, blow my big chance.”

“Oh, come on, let him take it,” Roxy says.                                                                                                                           

Robbie mulls it over, smirks. “What the fuck, go for it. You got fifteen seconds.”

She gives Rory the handheld. He answers.

“Yeah, Franklin baby, I’m kind of in the middle of something, but like we talked about yesterday, I think we can work together, yeah?  Let’s get it moving. Time is money man, so let’s get it going, now. Cool, okay, lataz.”

#

Robbie points the shotgun at Johnny Quid, gives Roxy a nod.  She walks over, takes the picture off the wall, looks at the wall safe.

“Okay Fucknuts. What’s the combo?” Robbie says.

Roxy’s spinning the tumbler while Rory’s telling her, “26 right…6 left…32 right.”

She pushes down on the handle, pulls the door open. The leads on the end of the Taser probe wire shoot out of the safe, bury themselves in her chest. Roxy starts doing the epileptic slide, then the worm. Robbie soils his Lucky’s and blasts a hole in the ceiling at the same time.               

Rory makes a break for the door, knowing the bogus combo triggered an alarm call to the cops. Time is of the fucking essence. Robbie reloads and blows a hole in the door as it swings open, while Rory slams into a wall of six-four, three hundred pound black dude standing in the threshold.

Franklin doesn’t miss a beat, pushes Rory to the ground, and pulls out the big-ass gun he’s got tucked in the small of his back.  Six bullets later, Roxy’s screaming and army crawling over to Robbie’s body as Franklin helps Rory to his feet.

Franklin’s thinking Rory’s in shock, asks if he’s okay.  Rory’s too busy staring at Johnny Quid, who’s telling him the world is his for the taking, going to be a star. It’s his destiny.  He snaps out of it, says, “The coppers will be here soon, keep an eye on her.”

Rory walks over to the safe, pulls out a stack of bills, about five grand in hundreds, and his black book. He tosses the cash to Franklin.

“Listen mate…I know when we first talked, I said it was on an as needed basis. But I been thinking it over, and this is going to be a full-time gig. You interested?”

“How much we talking about?”

“For starters, thousand a week, and you live here. And the name…Franklin’s cool by me.”

“Done.” Franklin reaches out a fist, gives Rory a bump.

Rory opens the black book, crosses bodyguard off the list.

Franklin, hearing the sirens in the distance says, “You know man, you are one crazy motherfucker. No ones gonna’ buy into all this shit. But hey, if you’re payin’, I’m playin’.”

“Don’t you worry mate. They can all carry our shoes when we’re walking down the hall of fame…together.”

Sean Patrick Reardon pays the bills working for a large investment company and resides in Massachusetts with his wife and two kids. He loves lacrosse, cricket, and spending time with family and friends. He's the author of the crime thriller, Mindjacker, and his short stories have been featured at Thrillers, Killers -n- Chillers, A Twist of Noir, and Do Some Damage.
You can follow Sean’s progress at his blog, http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com/