Just a Little Taste...

LT. McMichael 
Entry 1

With the transcription of pen and ink to pixels complete, and two scenes edited so far, I wanted to give everyone a taste of what to expect from TR 893, more commonly referred to as Thomas Overholt. The second story in a series of six, the Green Coyote continues the saga where Victor Briggs left off.

What follows is an excerpt from the first scene. To set the scene: It is the present day, on a train headed north from the border toward California. Overholt and Teresa Aberdeen (a Lady J) are in the process of locating a shipment of cocaine when Tom stumbles upon the bodies of Amtrak guards stripped of their uniforms. He has Teresa call in the bodies to the authorities on the train, and has made his way onto the roof to avoid the legitimate guards. To his surprise, the imposters also took to the roof, but they are unaware that he is making his way toward them...

=+=

            "Hold on a second." Tom pulled out one of his peacemakers, taking careful aim at the center guard.  The hammer cocked back, rotating a new round to the barrel.  He squeezed the trigger.

            *‘No!’*  Tom’s bullet went wild, slapping the train roof between the man’s legs.  *‘Was that a gunshot?’* 

            “I told you to hold on a second!”  The three men returned fire, peppering the metal around him.  He took a second shot dropping one of them, before slithering to the gap behind him.  Safely behind cover he turned his attention back to the Lady J.  “Thanks for that, now they know where I am.”

            *‘If it makes you feel any better, I think I found the drugs.’*  Tom ducked as another storm of lead passed over his hiding spot.

            “Not really, but I’ll manage.”  He lifted himself up only to drop again, forced to keep down as more bullets came his way.  “Fuck this!”  Tom slid the door to the car open and walked inside brandishing his pistols.  The passengers screamed at his sudden arrival amid a gunfight.  “This ain’t no stick up, and I ain’t no terrorist.  I’m in the middle of stopping a cartel from shipping a hell of a lot of coke north.  Now if you’d please move to the side of the car, I gotta get up there to get these bastards.”  They pressed themselves against the windows, screaming as he ran past to the end of the car.

            Tom opened the door and glanced up in time to see one of the impostors kneel down at that particular gap.  Without a second thought he shot the man, stepping aside as the lifeless body tumbled into the doorway.  “That’s an Amtrak Guard!  He’s killing the guards!”  The hysterical woman clutched at her children, squeezing them as Tom turned around. 

            “No ma’am,” Tom’s talking skull only furthered the woman’s anxiety.  “You see, him and his buddies are the ones who killed the guards.  I’m just killing them for killing the guards.”  She screamed again.  “It’s not like that!  I am doing a public service, like taking out the trash and such.”  The back door of the car slid open, revealing a mass of legitimate Amtrak police.  “Shit…”  Tom holstered his weapon, putting his hands in the air.  “Hold your horses now boys,” he began to back away, stepping over the body until he rested against the door.

            “Freeze scumbag!”  Four guards had their pistols aimed at the Reeferman while their superior addressed Tom.

            “Listen, I’m on your side.”

            “I said freeze mother fucker!”

            “This just isn’t gonna work for me,” Tom put his hands down.  “I mean, you come in here guns drawn, passengers are already freaking out, and you go and start cursing like that.  I mean seriously, what the fuck.  There’s no decency in the world anymore.”

            “Put your hands up!”

            “No.”

            “Do it or we’ll shoot!”  Tom threw his hands up in exacerbation.

            “Car full of people,” he turned around, “and this dumbass is gonna start shooting shit.”  Tom flung the door open to everyone’s surprise.  “I’m out of here, there just ain’t no manners anymore in this country.”  He slammed the door shut and disappeared from the porthole.  No one moved until the car lurched, bringing the Amtrak officers back to reality.  They rushed for the door, opening it to find that the Reeferman had disconnected the cars.  The head officer stepped out onto the platform.  As he raised his gun to shoot Tom he heard the slide of a pistol smack shut.  He looked up to see the last impostor aiming down at him.  A gun fired.

            “Holy shit,” the officer exhaled as the would-be assailant fell backward onto the roof.  Looking ahead on the tracks, he could see Tom spinning his peacemaker before sliding it into the holster.

            “I told you,” Tom yelled, “I’m on your side."

=+=

Sadly, something happens to our operatives at the end of the scene that changes Overholt, sending him down the road of vengeance.

I must admit it is a relief to have the hardest part of the process behind me, and I look forward to bringing this Reeferman to life and to your eLibrary in the coming month or so. Until then, keep checking in for new posts and news.

An Excerpt From The Original

OLD BLUE EYES
Entry 1

So, I've been struggling with the fourth scene yet again... Though ink is finding its way onto paper, the continuity and the actual, just, flow of the scene is all wrong. To recenter myself and recall what these characters are supposed to be capable of, what their lives are meant to express, and to remind myself where these Reefermen come from, I pulled out the scene that started it all.

What follows is an excerpt from the ten or so pages that created the universe for me. To set the scene: it is 1924 in an undisclosed flat in Anycity, USA. A man dressed in green has just purchased all the jive(weed) at this particular tea shop(dealer), much to the chagrin of another patron who has just left the three men. With all their business taken care of they are sitting around the table, smoking a gauge(joint) and talking. The Stranger changes the subject...

=+=

     "Speaking of killed, have you guys seen the paper?"
     "No, what?" Johnny's voice sifted through the cloud of smoke in front of his face.
     "Someone is killing people and setting the places on fire. It's crazy how people are in the city." The stranger took the gauge from Johnny. "I've never heard about such a crime."
     "Well they got another thing coming once we find them," Johnny grinned, "we're going to break every bone in their bodies."
     "Their?" The Stranger took a drag and passed the gauge back to Albert.
     "We aren't sure how many people are in on it," Albert began. He pulled slow on the gauge, thinking. "Our best guess is that it is some kind of hit squad. I knew some of the victims personally, and there is no way one guy killed them all."
     "You two should be careful."
     "We are," Johnny giggled. "I got a forty-five and Albert there has a shotgun under the sink."
     "Never can be too safe," Albert smiled as he handed Johnny the gauge.
     "No, you can't." The stranger pushed his chair from the table and leaned back. "Albert, are you a betting man?"
     "That depends on the bet."
     "Let's say a thousand dollars," the stranger pulled another wad of cash from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table.
     "That's the stakes, what are we betting on?" The gauge made it back to the stranger before Albert continued. "If it is some kind of rigged game, I ain't playing."
     "No no no," the stranger took a hit and passed to Albert again. "It is a simple bet."
     "I'm listening," Albert leaned forward with the gauge in his lips.
     "I bet that I can get the smoke of Johnny's lungs without him opening his mouth." The two men broke into laughter as the stranger sat in silence.
     "This is a sure thing Al," Johnny grabbed at the gauge.
     "Yeah alright," Albert laid out one thousand dollars. "Now, let's see you lose a thousand." Johnny took a large pull on the gauge, holding in the hit as he returned the joint to the stranger.
     "You holding it?" Johnny nodded at the stranger's question. He looked over at Albert, sitting with a smug look on his face. A loud pop drew his attention to the stranger once more, pistol in hand aimed at his chest.
     "What the fuck?!" Albert was in shock.
     "Just watch..." The stranger pointed to Johnny's chest as smoke slowly began to drift from the bullet wound. "I told you."
     "Oh my..." Albert was cut short, a bullet passing between his eyes. Johnny watched as Albert's body fell backward to the floor.
     "Wrong profession kid. Sorry for your luck." One last pull of the trigger scent Johnny on his way.

=+=

I always liked that part. Whatever the case, the stranger did not have a name... He wasn't even called the Reeferman at that point. But, his vendetta is the same one shared by the characters I write now. Stopping the bad stuff... The stranger, now known as Ashley Balacort, was a character created out of hate. A singular purpose to wipe out the people who sell heroin. Not much more went into him...

Meanwhile, Overholt, being the second Reeferman to be motivated by vengeance, is much more complex. The Texan has relationships that he needs to maintain, memories he's trying to repress, and a drug lord to take down. The action scenes are easy for me. It's the damn cool down sections that really throw me for a loop.