Baby's First Book of Illuminati Hand Signals. My own Gerber Life policy.

 

"do not go gentle into that Good Night,

rage, rage against the dying of the light..."

Frankie Goodnight was a vicious bastard, hosting and dictating to the local AM.  He had a playlist and they were forbidden from deviating from his chosen works as Program Director.

They noticed they would get dollars from Terry's Notions, but not Brady's Radials and Oil-Up.  They hired a 75/hr consultant to work on the problem, but all the time held Frankie's playlist as a sacred writ.

They were playing too much 1979-1985.

Everybody knew it.

Even Frankie, but truth was, Frankie liked it.

They would play deep cuts of a few 80s people, like Digger Jackson, and Dirt Road Joe, but not things like King Biscuit Talent Hour and others.

So many others under the sun.

Meanwhile, listening to that station, I wrote my first book, a lot during the hours of the one-legged DJ.

I had dozens of dollars coming to me for that nine weeks of writing work.

And one review, that bad, saying basically, not that the book was bad, but boring.

Which for fiction is the kiss of death.

They had went to the think-tank to find new ways to avoid my writing, and they had come up with the idea of never downloading it in the first place, never mind writing negative reviews of the material.

See, a lot of outside consultants were coming in, and as it was, it just seemed so many local business couldn't find their asses with both hands.  It was like living in Alaska during the one hour solar day.

It was ca-junk and ca-jole.

They were playing with something they didn't understand, as long as the media group sent them a quarterly check, it was okay, just to play the game and "make time".

Such was the way, 2015, people running with a stick sharpened at both ends, and me leaving town in a "personal luxury car", leaving like a newly divorced CEO trying to get away from the angry picketers and a questioning media.

I took my dozen dollars and retired from a life of professional writing, into, not relative anonymity, but kind of a low-level D-tier social media stardom, a cashless sort of notoriety, as it were.

Frankie Goodnight would warp the wheel of my bike, as he would run over the thing coming home in his 250, go right over the poor thing, the poor defenseless bike wheels.

It was "The Great American Success Story: Chapter Two", which I remember from an Dodge Aries K advertisement in a magazine, a laughable idea, that, and just as laughable, me retiring with 12 dollars.

Tell Officer Brown I'm back on the block, and my count ain't gonna be short this time around when I bag it up.

I dont told you about Officer Brown, so there.

I have a stockpile of some of that twelve dollars to fund additional adventures, buying used panties on Ebay and stuff, getting a box of starter pistol bullets, plastic ones with that little paper wadding discharge, burning paper flying from the end of a tiny 22 pistola.