Martin Millard Filmore with Trident

(A Lifestyle)
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5136-4114-0
Verlag: Curtis Martin
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 326 Seiten

Who are you? And how did you get where you are?
Some people have very solid and inflexible philosophies guiding them through life. Others drift.   Millard Fillmore with Trident assembles several people, personalities, and philosophies of life in a small rural Ohio town where their lives collide and conflict. Bikers, lawyers, paramedics, business owners, preppers, Amish, and the ingredients of life come together in a story of greed, love, drugs, murder, and raising chickens.
Garrett Mosely has turned his back on a privileged life in the city to work as a paramedic in rural Ohio. It only cost him a wife and his family's respect.  However, on the gently rolling hills he built a home and deals with illnesses, injuries, and tragedies of working in rural EMS:  drugs, blood, grief, and life and death.
Meredith McCoy, an investigator for the Attorney General's Office comes to Lexburg to put an end to the local drug crisis; a professional stepping stone for the thirty-year-old Iraqi War Vet on her way to becoming the Governor of the State. On the surface, Harrison County is a placid serene oasis in a country dominated by urban society and culture, but greed, avarice, and power has turned Harrison County into a drug rampant community controlled by an unassuming drug lord and a predatory bike gang as the enforcer.
Millard Fillmore with Trident, swirls with chaos and unpredictability. How the lives of the characters turn out is a crap shoot. Just like life itself.
 

Autoren/Hrsg.

Martin, Curtis

Leseproben

        Chapter I “I hate my life.” Roy Arnold said under his breath for the third time so far this a.m. He was heading east into the germinating light of day - a slice of yellow orange atop a rolling hill. As he drove to his job at the Rushmore Distributing Company, he counted things. He counted, as most mornings, the thirteen Oak trees, twenty-one Elm trees, and 96 guardrail post that the galvanized aluminum ribbon hung on where the State Highway Department decided the most dangerous places were along their two-lane snaky strip of asphalt. Hardly any cars out to count. Four stop signs and the one traffic light, that he’ll come to nearer town. The forty-six-year-old counted things at work: the beer bottles and kegs coming in and the number of beer bottles and kegs going out. Roy was the warehouse manager. One dead deer. Two groundhogs. Oh, sad, Rover won’t be coming home in the morning. Roy conjured up an image of Rex running out to the yellow bus when his Kids got home from school. That was a long time ago. A few life’s ago. Counting things was good for Roy. It kept him from dwelling on the past, present, and future. The numerology of his life. Roy turned up the radio when the oldie country station played a tune from his past. It was a song about too hot to fish, too hot for golf, but too cold at home. In 1990, when he was getting ready to graduate from high school, he had been too young and inexperienced to fully appreciate the song’s meaning. He surely understood it now. Three kids, twenty-four to twelve, two ex-wives, Jenny’s mom, and one girlfriend back at the trailer sleeping off the alcohol, coke, and another fight about the alcohol and coke. At least he had the quiet and solace of his Ford 250 pickup truck. Super Duty. Its massive steel frame, leather seats, surround sound stereo system kept the road noise out and his dreamy solitude inside. Miss another payment and he won’t even have the silver 4X4 to take him to and from work and from home to the slop joints at night with Shelia. Twenty-two years old, Sheila wore white mascara and had long ironed straight blond hair she repainted once a week in the bathroom sink. Roy rested his plastic bottle of Mountain Dew atop his projecting beer belly. He cocked the rearview mirror towards himself to see if he got all the toothpaste off his lips before running out the door this morning. His last drink of Dew had a peppermint tinge to it. “I hate my life.” Roy said again looking at what had become a flinty- fiery young brat that graduated high school and joined the Army to see the world and fuck women all over it. He wished he could still get a boner like he could back then. Stiff and ready with the slightest breeze of poontang. After his first month in Texas, he got a girl pregnant and had learned growing up in a small town through Easter Church services and his dad’s belt, to do the right thing. He married seventeen-year-old Tilda Rodriquez. Roy ignored the thin prickly sparse brown hair over his pate, the flabby jowls that were starting to droop towards the jawline, wishing he didn’t have to spend so much money on boner medication. Tilda had been flabby, soft, brown, and not as near pretty as Shelia, but they would fuck while he drank a coffee cup behind her. She would take his penis and stuff it inside her while in the Walmart parking lot or after a vigorous sermon at church. Shelia fumbled with his fleshy member after a half hour once the boner medicine took hold. Roy figured she did it mostly out of obligation for the alcohol and drugs and to get around town in his truck with the modified exhaust. He never heard Shelia come close to screaming like Tilda did in her native Mexican tongue. “Ariba! Rapido, Rapido” As opposed to Sheila saying, “You want a towel?” He didn’t mind, watching her skinny silhouette slip naked through the shadows created by the TV set on the dresser. He had never known a girl who wore size two jeans. The augmented breasts, size 34 C, he had bought last Christmas looked even larger cast against the wall. Then heard the urine filling the bowl. Their son, Steve, still lived in Texas with Tilda; doing his second stint of rehab after a year in jail for mugging an old lady in the same Walmart parking lot he and Tilda used to fuck in; might have conceived him in. Once, when Steve was sixteen, the black haired, almond colored skin, and blue-eyed drug-using youth had come to live in Ohio with him - to get away from all the bad influences leading him astray in El Paso. Soon, Steve had found bad elements in Ohio and fled back to Texas with a warrant for his arrest. Kara, 18, and Jenny, 12, lived in the county with their mothers and stepfathers and holidays were a nightmare. When Jenny was three, she used to sit on his lap and together they would count with the Count on Sesame Street and Grover, one cookie, two cookies, three…It was the last thing he had done with her while his bags stood at the door. Hell, it was getting so it was a crime to have sex with a woman anymore. He pushed the rearview mirror back in place. Cool, May morning air filled the cabin of the 53,000-dollar truck. Roy needed the air and the sound of waking chicks to make wider awake and closer to his roots of his hometown. He was lucky, one of the ones that got away for at least awhile. Divorce, loneliness, and a sense of not belonging to a place had brought him home. A Gulf War Vet he was feted on military holidays and was Past President of the local VFW. A piece of shrapnel from a British mortar had gotten him a Purple Heart and his second wife, Becky. She loved sitting on the back seat of a convertible with him for the Memorial Day parade down the main street of Lexburg. Court Street. Kara was graduating High School in a week. One less child support payment. An opaque, silvery light was taking over the road and the rural pastures and woods he was passing. The headlights on the twisting road ahead were ebbing away. “BEC” lit up his phone lying in a cup holder on the center console, his second and last official wife. He had met the auburn haired piled high on her head bartender on his route when he was a beer truck driver. She worked, and still does, at a bar outside of town, ‘The Silver Star’. It was a match made in beer heaven; for a while anyway. Roy instinctively closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. He would tell her later he must have been in a low spot when she called. It was always a handy excuse for missing a call in this part of the State. Even at home, high on a hill, service was at best spotty; having to move in and out of the trailer, walking around, “Can you hear me now? Now?” Becky had been on him lately about helping to pay for Kara’s education at the local technical college. She wanted to be a nurse. But it was rare she called this early for anything. “Yep?” “Roy, it’s Bec.” There was a tremble in her voice. “What’s up?” Roy saw where he was on the road to work. “I might lose ya. I’m headed to work.” She would know that. “It’s Kara. She didn’t come home las’ night.” Roy could hear her puffing a cigarette while talking, biting a thumbnail as she always did when she was nervous. “K. Not the first time.” Since Kara had turned twelve, or was it thirteen, long after he had left the picture at home, she had cut a path through life like she was thirty rather than a teenager. Once, at fifteen, she had taken off to North Carolina with a drummer in a heavy metal band. To make everyone back home feel assured about her safety she had sent them a picture of herself wearing a weary, black Goth outfit with laced boots up to the middle of her thighs, showing her new tongue stud. Two weeks later she was home. “I know, but she ain’t the same way anymore.” Becky stood in the kitchen in a sleeveless Harley Davidson shirt faded from black to gray, and underwear; thinking, if you spent more time in her life you would know the transformation his daughter had made over the last year; from demon child to a young woman with a plan for her future. Roy thought about the new boyfriend he had met. Some kid from a big city up North, not around there. A Piker who was having sex with his little girl. “Is she still with that guy? They’re probably out doing something stupid like seniors do just before Graduation.” “Yeah, they got plans together.” Becky said it in a Captain Obvious sort of way. “Anymore she and I talk about everything. If she was planning on being out all night, she would have told me.” Roy missed most of what Becky had said, when the road dipped down into a steep, but short gulley. He did get, ‘told me’. “What do you want me to do?” Becky swallowed a gulp of anger. Why couldn’t Roy, Kara’s real father be more like Randy, a man, a real man. “Help find her.” There was a catch in her voice, welling from her motherly instinct that something was wrong. “Randy’s out looking for her now.” The man who put a new last name to his ex-wife, a biker-dude who worked the second shift at the Tobia Sparkplug factory in town. When the lanky, half bald biker wasn’t wearing the uniform of the road, leather and silver chains, he was wearing the white Tobia uniform with its blue piping and coordinated ball cap. On their first meeting Randy had asked him why he didn’t have a Harley. Roy told him ever since he was nine years old shiny, loud things didn’t impress him much. And the tassels hanging down from the handlebars reminded him of the tricycle he had as a kid. He and Randy just never had much reason to be around each...