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Dead tunes, by Karl CrossSUMMARY: The crazy old bartender. The average joe who hit it lucky. A writer with a strange secret. A story set in a world of disturbing proportions with villians that don't entirely want to die.
Johnny laughed a forced little cackle, not fake, far from it in fact. It was forced in the sense that it had came from nowhere, a little madness of the moment as he sped around the corner in his brand new BMW ZM4 roadster. It's silver paint job sparkled in the moon light while Johnny cracked open the last beer from the now completely consumed six packs that had been with him at the beginning of his journey. The brand was a good one: wizer's smooth. And that wasn't just any old beer. That was a boutique beer. The taste testified to its cost magnificently as did its effect. Johnny had never felt so tanked up in his life although in fairness not all of it was due to the beer. A few weeks ago Johnny had a little wind fall; three hundred million to be precise. He never thought in his wildest dreams that his weekly lottery tickets would ever amount to something but then who does? The first thing Johnny did when he found out was drink, that had been three weeks ago and he still hadn't stopped. As far as Johnny was concerned life was now his own personal party. Madness was the word that perfectly described the scene he was caught in at that moment the laugh escaped him, reckless would have been another. That's how he'd got here. Four day's ago he'd brought the roadster to take his son out (There's nothing quite like driving up to your ex wife's house in a brand new car reeking of money) and a few hours ago he'd decided to take a little drive. A little drive had turned into a road trip, then in to a cross country drinking spree.
Johnny had left all he knew a few hours ago and was in the middle of nowhere. If Johnny had not been so drunk perhaps common sense or his own deep rooted primal fears would have turned his course back homeward. He had never ventured far from Edmonton with its neatly arranged streets and plainly identical houses. Johnny was used to streets brimming with people and a sky you'd only notice if you could be bothered to crane your head upwards. Green fields and long lonesome country roads were myths far from normal thought like barely coherent war stories from your granddad that you knew may be true but didn't much want to hear about. So Johnny felt uneasy stuck in the mostly green expanse that was vastly indifferent to his presence. That is too say he would felt uneasy if he had been in control of his wits and not floating in a beer stained sea of half finished thoughts and laughable grandeur.
All around him were fields and farm houses. It never occurred to him to turn back, not even once. What did occur to him was the idea that maybe if he drove far enough maybe he'd find somewhere he recognised. Maybe.
When Johnny did finally stop it was out of necessity not desire. The car had run out of fuel and so had he. The country side had faded a little now, given way to a small town that was called "Blues air". The name had been printed across a dark blue sign that hung from two rusty chains attached to a pole. A typical sign post apart from its newly painted sheen. Unlike the rest of the hum drum town that looked dusty and reeked of recycled air it looked brand new.