A failed Quarterback, Morgan, seeks solace in classic rock music and redemption through the music of a failed songwriter.
When given a demo tape, his friends start to meet with bizarre, fatal ‘Accidents.’ This hard-drinking, chain-smoking, womaniser flees to the desert, picking up the inevitable girl en route and stumbling across the greatest Homeland Conspiracy since the cold war ended.
In trying to save his own world, he may be saving it for all of us.
Targeted Age Group:: 25-75
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
In the early eighties, President Reagan announced his Star Wars anto- missile initiative. In the mid- eighties 22 Uk scientis working on ' Star Wars' died in mysterious accidents.
At the end of the eighties Tha Wall came down.
The above was the genesis for this story and after extensive research I realised we are all in imminent danger of being wiped out.
I've have a thread of dark humour running through the narrative which softens the underlying message.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main character is a non-PC Quarterback. I wanted an all American boy to have a soft centre. A renaissance man who hides behing a flip exterior. Like Jack Reacher finding hia feminine side. I use this to introduce conflict , even within one character.
His girlfriend is sassy and clever and can run rings around him, even though he thinks he's in control. Again – conflict.
These to are held in place by a struggling songwriter who's songs are an integral part of the storyline and can be accessed by a link from the book.
These three are pitted against the CIA anagonist, who provides another conflict – between Love and Duty.
Los Angeles – Foothills
The car moved fast against the rain. It pitched and rolled and dipped hard at the hairpins. It had seen better days, but then so had the driver. The thunderstorm had moved on and the squalls were tiring. Soon the heat would come.
He reeled in the silvered road, one hand on the wheel, one around a can of beer. The cigarette had almost burned to the filter when he spat it out. The wind carried it away.
The wipers smeared the last of the rain into neat arcs, the drops on the periphery remained static and the air stank of it.
The Mustang hissed onwards, down through low hills and all alone. He lit another cigarette, slowed slightly and lobbed the can into a roadside bin; straight in, it didn't touch the sides. The Mustang moved off at speed, the hood was down and the driver was wet.
He didn't seem to care.
‘Strange creatures, women. When asked a question requiring a yes or no answer … whatever the reply, there's only a fifty percent chance they mean it.’
She started angrily scrubbing at one particular spot thinking what a drag it was that all the good-looking guys turned out to be assholes.
‘They have no sense of time, no sense of direction,’ then quieter to himself, ‘but a wonderful sense of self-preservation.’
She was certain he was looking at her and seemed to like what he was seeing … unless it was what he was hearing. She had just put on a Springsteen tape.
He struck a match on the sole of his boot and lit up.
‘That'll kill you.’ She was making conversation.
‘The only thing that causes death is life,’ he replied with a smile.
Together they lifted her and moved through into the hall. The tall one took her under the armpits and was first to the stairs. Dead bodies are not very co-operative before rigor sets in and lifting a sack of jelly may have been easier. They took her up head first, the man holding the legs having difficulty pinning the smooth, waxed limbs tight between his arms and his side. After four steps and losing his grip twice, he resorted to draping her long legs over his shoulders.
The radio was playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’ as they proceeded up the curved staircase in this slightly surreal fashion. Her backside bumping rhythmically on each stair and her pelvis thrusting into the smaller man's face. Almost the scenario she had planned for that evening, but not quite. She had reached Heaven anyway, albeit by a different route than originally anticipated. Death imitating Art.
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