Craig Rainey's Blog: Craig Rainey's Blog - Posts Tagged "craig-rainey"

Excerpted from the novel Stolen Valor, A Carson Brand Novel. Bert is Carson Brand's best friend. He is known for his telling of the following tale during Renaissance Festivals.

A grey sky hovered low upon the wet roofs and bundled masses heaving along the streets of the village. Cloaks clung tightly around chilled shoulders. Peace tied swords weighed heavily, ankle bells tinkled with each step, and ponderous chain mail shifted and tinkled with their haste. The scarred double doors of the great hall resisted the large crowd entering to receive a small amount of warmth and a large amount of ale or Meade.

At the center of the roiling throng stood a large bearded man in stiff leathers, broad gauntlets and grieves. His arms spread dramatically as his deep voice boomed. All present knew of him and his tale. No matter the frequency of the telling, his ode was welcomed as a mainstay of the festival.

“Settle in with me now. Join me in a moment which will come only once. We will never be here again!”

Like a blanket, silence fell upon the large hall.

The large bearded man looked about critically as if he searched for any single member who might be unworthy of the coming tale. Reluctantly his eyes turned from the crowd and to the broad beams and thick rafters of the great hall.

A methodical chant began with a single voice but was picked up by the throng until it thundered. A single word chanted in slow but irresistible rhythm.

“Bert! Bert! Bert!”

One large raised hand silenced the crowd. He shook his head as if in denial of any credit for himself personally. His tale was not his to own. He was merely a container, sharing its contents with those who would benefit from the gift.
With one last long panoramic look he began:

In the days of the warring tribes of the highlands, only a handful of hardy nomads traveled a strange and forbidding land. One of these, a battle-hardened band of travelers, made their way into a vast wilderness. They searched for a place in which to settle, where the weather allowed for farming and the waters were suitable upon which to sail and fish. Finally, weary and near despair from the hardships of their journey, the weary band gained the summit of a windy hill. Below them, they beheld a valley of unrivaled beauty. Rolling grasses and the feathered greenery of generous trees gave way to the gentle azure waters of a protected bay.

The leader, O’levre, surveyed the new and beautiful land with a satisfied eye. This wise leader was a large and powerfully built man. His countenance was broad with high cheekbones and a powerful jaw. His piercing blue eyes gleamed their approval at their good fortune. Finally, he proclaimed this valley their new home.

A small settlement grew on the shores of the protected bay’s welcoming waters. The bounty guessed at was well exceeded by the harvest reaped from the fertile land. The sea teemed with fish. Their nets, many times, were too heavy with fish to recover without releasing a portion of their catch.

As the seasons passed gently and without incident, their lives obtained a peace previously unknown since their flight from a troubled homeland.

O’levre, the warrior, grew calm in this tranquil place. His hawkish eyes soon lost their sharpness of war. The peace within him opened his awareness to those things of beauty around him. Among them, he noticed the interest for him of a lovely maiden.

To his battle-weary eyes, she was cornflower and goldenrod. Often, he found himself in a state of unconscious rapture. His senses were immersed in his preoccupation of her. The very parting of her generous lips when she spoke caused him a start and filled him with the most exquisite sense of pleasant warmth.

Her Fear Gradually Became Curiosity, Then Finally Attraction
Her name was V’rona. She was aware of his affection for her. She had grown up with the stories of his ferocity in battle: the same stories who’s very telling served as a primary deterrent for ambitious enemy attacks. Her fear gradually became curiosity, then finally attraction. The idea of so ferocious and infamous a lion becoming a warm and loving companion was irresistible.

Their love was just beginning to bloom when the enemy arrived. The skies grew dark and the seas grew black with his rage. This land was his refuge from the rigors of his life as a god above.

O’levre and his clan gathered in the center of their small village. They watched the threatening skies with the stern mien of a people accustomed to facing the threat of a powerful and strange adversary. A lightning bolt struck near them and from the blast appeared a golden being. He was magnificent to behold. He was beautiful and terrible at the same time. His voice opened like the heavens.

“My name is Ba’acus. You are strangers to this place and unwelcome here. I will allow you one opportunity to leave before loosing my almighty rage upon you.”

O’levre stepped forward. His jingoism, recently dormant, once again possessed him. He felt, as before, at home in his sense of impending conflict. Ba’acus eyed him with grim interest.

Even to a god, O’levre was an impressive specimen of manhood. The god looked the warrior up and down. His gaze then surveyed the others in the circle. Inevitably, his keen eyes settled upon the lovely V’rona. He took in her beauty with obvious relish. O’levre was not pleased with the god’s interest paid V’rona.

“This place is our home”, the leader proclaimed with a menacing tone. “We will not leave.”

Surprising to all present, the god did not grow angry at O’levre’s challenge. Rather, he appeared amused at the temerity of the fierce leader.

“Very well”, the golden god said, “I will allow you to stay in my paradise. The levied price for your new homeland is this lovely maiden.”

He pointed a stiff arm at V’rona. Deliver her to me at the top of the northern promontory at sunrise tomorrow, or I will visit upon you my Devine wrath.”

With this dire proclamation, the being rose from the ground with a whirling storm of wind and rain. In an instant he was gone, and the sky was cloudless as before.

The elders gathered before O’levre. There was no talk of delivering one of their own to this vengeful being. The talk was of war and how it should be waged against so ominous a foe. As they had their entire lives, they donned armor and gathered to them the weapons and shields so recently traded for nets and plowshares.

The next morning the villagers gathered at the central square, dressed and equipped for fierce and final battle. The pleasant morning sun rose as it had every day since their arrival. Today, however, it dawned upon grim battle-hardened faces and the dull chink of armor and weaponry. Every eye searched the skies for sign of the imminent threat they would face in battle. Although fear was a part of every battle, none was exhibited by these veterans of a lifetime of armed conflict.

The Sun rose as it always had. The minutes passed, yet no mighty foe appeared. There was no darkening of the horizon or tossing of the seas. Minutes grew to hours with no difference to that day’s advance than any other. Suspicious of a plot of attrition, the fighters maintained their ready positions as the day waned then darkened as the evening grew nigh.

A Deafening Screech Brought Him Bolt Upright. O’levre finally looked about him with no small sense of pride. His men had lost none of their discipline nor a whit of their military bearing in the softness of their new gentler lives. He tapped his spear on the hard ground three times: the traditional signal. The company of soldiers relaxed their vigilance as one.

After a short conversation, it was decided that a cautious and alert withdrawal to their homes was warranted. Bright torches were lighted throughout the village and guards were posted at the village’s edges in all four directions. The remaining force would rest during the night then resume their watch the following day.

O’levre had slept only a few moments when a deafening screech brought him bolt upright. The air whooshed as if pressed by powerful forces. The village roused with a cry of women and the angry roar of the men.

O’levre grabbed his spear and emerged from his warren. The sentry torches shone upon the shining scaled coils of a giant flying beast. It was more than twice the size of their largest fishing vessel. As the beast rose, O’levre recognized the destroyed remains of V’rona’s small warren.

O’levre moved towards the rising beast. Fear for his new love gripped his strong heart. Below the flying behemoth was clutched lovely V‘rona in a large clawed grip. Beast and prey were soon lost to the inky blackness of night. The men ran in pursuit of the beast but were soon left hopelessly far behind. In defeat, they returned to the small village. They pledged to take up the hunt at first light.

O’levre returned to his warren, heavy of heart. Dread at what might befall his love at the whim of so awful a creature filled his imagination. It was a credit to his strength of will that he found the ability to sleep for the few hours left to him that night.

For the second day, the men were up with the dawn. They again gathered in the village center to muster their forces for the day’s work. To their surprise, the vengeful god awaited them. He stood with arms crossed. His mighty chest heaved with the strength of his emotion.

Before the men could act upon their rage and rush the being, he pointed a large accusing finger at them.

“You have lost her!” he boomed. “My bride is lost to me…and to you!”

This last he leveled directly at mighty O’levre.

The leader was confused at the god’s senseless accusation. He was unaccustomed to the unfamiliar emotions he felt, and he struggled to regain his comfiture.

“You are responsible for this!” O’levre retorted impotently. We shall recover V‘rona.”

“No”, the golden god shouted. “Only one of you may face the beast!”

From the folds of his tunic he withdrew a jeweled bottle. He held the heavy vessel in a single sinewy hand.

“All shall drink from the Nectar of the Gods. Only he who does not succumb to its pleasures shall be fit to confront the beast in battle. It is written that only one may defeat the beast where a host would fall.”

O’levre approached the golden god. He took the heavy, ornate vessel from him and hefted it in one mighty hand.

“There is hardly enough in this container for a single thirsty man. How shall it provide for a host such as us?”

The god shook his head.

“He who passes the test shall confront the beast and defeat him alone.”

With that, he vanished as he had previously, in a violent storm of wind and rain.

The Bottle was Passed Among Them, Each Man Filling his Vessel to the Rim
O’levre moved to the center point of the square. He pulled the heavy stopper from the bottle’s spout. He sniffed the contents suspiciously. Finally, he instructed his men bring goblets and flagons, so they might begin the test.

Soon all returned to the village center, equipped as commanded by their leader. The bottle was passed among them, each man filling his vessel to the rim. As one, they lifted their cups and drank deeply. They waited, looking at one another for some tell-tale sign of change or transformation. Instead, they felt only a lightening of their thoughts and moods.

They refilled their cups and again drained them. Soon they felt a strangeness growing behind their eyes. A lightness of spirit affected each of them to a man. The gravity of the situation faded from dire consideration to a topic of lighter concern. It seemed, in some way, even a bit humorous that a mythical beast would appear and spirit one from among them, as in some fabled tale.

The third time the jeweled vessel made its round, a general sense of increased camaraderie gripped them in a warm fraternal embrace. Their conversation went to the long-time friendships and brotherhood linking each man to the other.

This ritual continued through the remainder of the day and far into the night. The decorative container failed to grow empty. For that matter, it seemed never to drop below full. The effect upon the warriors was remarkable.

Finally, as morning arrived, preceded by a dull thin gray line on the horizon, only one man stood. O’levre looked about him in the dim light of the infant day. His fellow warriors lay upon the ground and against trees, snoring and blubbering their helpless condition caused by the Nectar of the Gods. The answer was clear and not surprising to those few women awake at so early an hour. O’levre once again would be their champion.

Although wobbly from the effects of the nectar, he made ready to set out upon the trail of the beast. He paused once more to survey his countrymen. Amidst the prostrate sat the ornate vessel, innocently awaiting its next victim. O’levre boldly collected the bottle and took one more long draught from its wide mouth. He felt no fear of the contents within.

He strode from the village, bottle in hand. His shield was slung over his shoulders and his spear was gripped tightly in his free hand.

Surprisingly, he found the beast’s lair within less than a half day’s walk from the village. To his relief, V’rona stood amongst a half circle of tall stones, the front guarded by the wary beast. She appeared unharmed. The large creature surveyed the approaching man warily.

O’levre halted mere yards from the monster. He pulled the cork from the jeweled vessel once more. From it he drew a long pull. The pleasant warmth of the liquid provided him a comforting glow from his throat to deep within him. He once more, felt the pleasant sensation, as the nectar again affected him. His head swam slightly, but his courage was bolstered.

He placed the bottle gently upon the ground and gripped his spear in his right hand. He brought his heavy shield into proper position for battle. He lowered his huge head and rushed the scaled creature with his war cry: the same cry which had demoralized the enemy on countless occasions. The beast watched him with dull red eyes.

With an incredibly quick movement the beast whirled his entire body and struck at O’levre with a maw of razor-sharp teeth.

O’levre saw the attack in plenty of time to react. However, for the first time in his life, his reactions were not rapid enough to avoid the move. O’levre disappeared within the creature’s mouth with a loud crunch.

V’rona screamed her surprise.

Without a pause, the beast lifted on its large scaly wings and flew towards the distant mountains.

As if by magic, the golden god stood just outside the circle of tall stones. He considered his beautiful prize with great relish.

Surrendering to her inevitable fate, V’rona approached the god with lowered sad eyes.

The god took her in his powerful embrace. As he turned towards the azure sea, just visible in the distance, V’rona looked into the god’s face.

“Will you leave the jeweled bottle and the magic nectar within?”

The golden god looked down upon her with surprise.

In his booming voice he replied. “I never touch the stuff.”

Deafening cheers from the grateful crowd made the welkin ring. Bert bowed his head. His work here was done.

He gained consciousness in the familiar confines of his apartment. He knew it was his apartment only because he could see the banister to his bedroom loft and the burgundy accent wall above him. But that was where the familiarity ended. He pulled himself to his feet.

"Ow!"

He played gingerly at the tender spot on the top of his head: a spot covered by hair, matted with dried blood - apparently his own. Because opening his eyes caused him pain, he squinted through narrowly separated eyelids at his surroundings. He groaned at the sight of one of his home theater speakers poking out of the screen of his 72” 4k television. His green leather sofa, loveseat, and lounger were in turn, toppled, ripped and...

"What the hell is that?" he muttered, spitting out small strands of hair…or fur.

As he got closer to the sofa, he identified the smeared matter on the leather upholstery as feces. Upon closer inspection, the overpowering smell which struck him like a blow confirmed the matter smeared on his walls as poop, up to about 4 feet above the carpet.

"Oh my God!"

The previous night his carpet had been beige. The carpet he beheld through aching eyes was a dull spectrum of burnt umber darkening to brown in places. To his horror, the stiff fibers were being jostled by the air currents of the slowly spinning ceiling fan. The mess eddied languorously then settled…millions of individual fibers.

He brought his scratched and soiled hand to his blood-stained lips. He removed a long strand from under his tongue. The long fibrous tendril appeared to be fur. His back stiffened as dread washed over him. As his memories returned, he felt the blood drain from his ears and his neck flushed.

"Please no", he begged, though he already knew.

Slowly he turned. It was a laborious turn of the head, as he trained his diminished gaze upon the spot where his $10,000.00 drum kit should have been. Over the years his dining room had become a drummer's shrine. His custom-made high-end Sonor drum set was now 4 feet of smeared feces and an impressionist sculpture of bristling drumsticks and broken shells. The back wall was torn and littered with jagged, angry-looking broken cymbals, twisted boom stands, and deformed die-cast hoops. The fur blanketed floor embraced the splintered spiny remains of the cherry maple lacquered drum shells. In the center of the debris field was the bottom quarter circle and spiked legs of the 20-inch bass drum, gently cradling a carefully deposited pile of poop.

He would have fallen to his knees had it not been for the liberally strewn mixture of feces and what had been the contents of his refrigerator on his fur-covered floor. Tears streamed down his filthy cheeks as he made his way towards the front door. If only he could get outside into the fresh air; back to a semblance of the familiar; the sane!

His bare feet…
his shoes had been removed too… squished and sloshed as he staggered down the short hallway towards the steel front door.

The door was ajar. Silhouetted in the rectangular grey light of the approaching sunrise was a squat wooden…

Like a punch in the face, it all came back to him.

His mind whirled as his memory filled in the blanks.

The week had started like any other. Monday was always a drag. A weekend of heavy drinking and over-eating had bent his shoulders and cast his face with a sickly pallor. His brain had worked slowly with a strained reluctance. As always on a Monday, his main goal had been coffee and the appearance of work behind the antiquated monitor at his workstation.

The gray carpeted cubicle with a grey Formica desk and grey steel drawers housed the impersonal office supplies which bore testimony to the nomadic nature of his job and the listless vagrants who had made that cubicle a temporary home before he had taken the job.

'Downtime. Please, no calls now', he had thought.

The computer screen displayed a single line of text and his headset went live, crackling with the silence of a frustrated prospect who had made the mistake of answering the call.

He summoned his best happy voice.

"Hi, does the idea of saving 50 to 75 percent on your utility bills interest you? (no pause) Of course it does. That's why I wanted to call you personally with an incredible offer…"

"Take me off your list, you dick!"

The line went dead as the call ended and the auto dialer busied itself to connect him with a new angry phone call.

This was his life? He had remembered back to his first week on the job. He had hoped the boring classroom training would never end. But it did. This was the hell for which he had trained. He had shaken his head as he predicted that there was no way he would last through Friday. No way!

That had been three months before. Every day had dawned with dread and dusked with despair. Was it too much to ask for a little fun?

On Friday he did what anyone in his state of mind would do. He deposited his lower three-digit paycheck into his bank account and went home to his apartment where he made the call.

He needed some fun! By god, he would have it! When fun was not readily available, you ordered in.

The fun arrived in the form of the wooden barrel he now saw on his front porch. The heavy barrel had been delivered by two beefy, overall-clad men sporting scruffy van dykes – presumably, to mark where their chins were had they been thinner. They refused to carry the heavy container beyond the entryway of the apartment.

"Sign here", one of them said.

Their expressions displayed their readiness to do battle if he pressed the issue, so he scrawled his name on the form and dismissed the large men with a wave of his hand.

Once alone, he decided to move the barrel where the light was better for releasing the steel bindings. Although he had strained mightily, he had not been able to budge the container an inch. After several long minutes, he had surrendered to the impossible task. With a few more moments of study, he had decided the barrel would be more gainly if the contents were emptied.

With renewed enthusiasm, he had hurried to the kitchen and found his household hammer in the drawer next to the sink above the cabinet door where his plastic ware was kept. He opened the cabinet and glanced at the old drink cups and disposable lidded containers bearing fast food logos. He shrugged then closed the cabinet. He would make a drink after.

He hurried back to the ponderous container and worked at the steel straps. Slowly he was able to coax the upper steel band until it rose reluctantly above the flat lid. Finally, he wedged the claw of the hammer under the lid, secured by black-headed nails. He worked the hammer around the lid until only two nails held it in place.

He had grinned expectantly as he breathed deeply from the exertion.

"What could be more fun than a barrel of monkeys?"

Suddenly, the top had exploded, and he had been thrown backwards, falling to the beige carpeted floor. With a cacophony of screams, a flood of brown furry creatures boiled out of the barrel. What he knew about a barrel of monkeys would be put to the test that night!

A multitude of fingered feet trampled him as they made good their escape. Under the thousands of staccato blows he thought:

'Why would someone want to barrel monkeys? Further, who came up with the idea to do so? Did the fun meter tip depending upon the type of monkey? Were spider monkeys the optimum barrel occupant? Would a chimp be questionable or is the orangutan more agreeable with the confines of a barrel? Was a gorilla the revenge or practical joke method in the barreling community? If it were even possible, it would seem that only one gorilla would fit.'

The roiling simian horde seemed to have answers of their own to his many questions – none of them pleasant.

As the clamor heightened within his apartment, he rose to join the riotous monkeys. His expectations grew as he rallied. The advertisement which had moved him to place the order had been a trite reminder of an old adage. Despite the terror of the unexpected monkey explosion, he decided to have as much fun as a barrel of monkeys.

He got no further than where the hallway met his living room when he had felt a hard blow to the head and his memories had gone dark.

His last thought, as he slipped into the blackness of unconsciousness, had been that these particular monkeys didn't seem to be having much fun.

Craig Rainey published Stolen Valor - A Carson Brand Novel (Craig Rainey Publishing) in the Summer of 2019. The first in the Carson Brand Series, the story introduces a new action-adventure character and a gripping plot.
Carson Brand Embodies the Hero in Everyone

My second novel was an easier project than Massacre at Agua Caliente - A Western Tragedy (Craig Rainey Publishing 2018) where the script determined much of the storyline in the western, I had free reign over the structure and the content of my new novel.

I have always read spy novels. The most formative was The Destroyer Series by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy. Later I enjoyed the Bourne series, Jack Ryan, and most recently Jack Reacher. The common theme I grew to dislike was the characterization of the protagonists when they weren't performing heroic feats or saving the day was their social lives.

Jack Ryan always featured a particular type of woman. She was inevitably a doctor or a career businesswoman. I felt Clancy's portrayal of his women and their perceptions was unrealistic and monolithic. Jack Reacher suffered a subtly different stereotype. His damsels in distress tended to be so strong as to be masculine or conversely, sexy was slutty. Remo Williams was mired in the genre of the eighties. His women were his sex puppets - no woman was too strong nor too independent not to succumb to an earth-quake orgasm from the martial artist of love.

It occurs to me that these authors had limited if hardly any success with women in their lives. Perhaps they were the nerds who women ignored for the football captains and the bad boys these authors created in their books. I don't believe that I am an authority on women, but I do try to listen to them.
The character Helen in Massacre at Agua Caliente was researched clandestinely with the woman I based her upon as well as input form other women in my life. Natalie in Stolen Valor is the embodiment of one of my exes.

Women fascinate me in that they are so different from men. The way they think, how they approach work and play, and how they interact with one another is remarkable when compared to men. A close friend of many years, call her LH, has told me on many occasions that women like me primarily because I make them feel special. Usually, a compliment like that is followed with a barbed zinger referring to my philanderous nature or connecting the trait to a pick-up process. LH knows me well enough to understand my fascination with women as individuals - not trophies. My point is that when you are trusted, you are awarded unique insight to the woman who trusts you.

I have never met these authors, so my opinion is purely from what I have read. I had a similar experience in the music business. I was a touring drummer for years. I played with dozens of bands. I found with few exceptions that the industry is peopled with nerds who learned to play an instrument. One lead singer/songwriter/guitarist with whom I played used to complain that I tended to cock-block him at every gig. He informed me authoritatively that the lead singer/guitarist got the girls. The stupid drummer made do with the chaff. I informed him that during his youth while he was sitting alone in his bedroom playing his guitar and crying, I was playing football, driving fast cars and dating hot women. I added that the reason he was so good with his instrument was because that was all he did growing up.

Like my musical friends, I believe most authors began their writing as an outlet where they created characters and personas that lived out their fantasies of popularity and philandery (not a word). I have never been a Casanova but I have dated frequently. To my detriment, I have been married 4 times and divorced 3 of them. You develop a remarkable experience base when you learn from your failures and benefit from your successes.

Carson Brand is not much of a ladies man, although he is considered attractive by most women. He doesn't see himself that way. He comes from a broken home, raised by his best friend Bert's family. The Bert character is the embodiment of the philanderer. The point of his life is to sleep with women. He was difficult to make likable enough for my readers to accept him as a realistic character. His flaws are delivered with his own unique humorous insight about himself. The character is based upon a close friend from years ago. Karen, the bartender, delivers the requisite amount of disdain and disapproval for Bert. She is based upon a true person. Many of the situations Brand finds himself in are based upon true events in my life. Some of the outcomes and details are altered - others are accurate.

Synopsis - Stolen Valor, A Carson Brand Novel (Craig Rainey Publishing 2019)
Carson Band and his best friend Bert cross the Mexican border for a night out. Brand doesn’t know about his friend’s secret association with the Cartel. He also doesn’t know this will be his last night with Bert.

Brand’s life changes forever when he enters a world of human trafficking, drug dealers, and murder. He is pursued by deadly Sicarios, sought by federal and state authorities, seduced then betrayed by the lovely Christina. Involved as deeply with the huge crime organization as his friend Bert had been, Brand must rely on his inherent toughness and limited experience to keep him alive.

The first in the Carson Brand series, Stolen Valor opens a door to the reality behind the daily news headlines. presenting a shocking view of a dark world that exists next door to our homes and schools.

Craig Rainey Published his first western novel in the Spring of 2018. Massacre at Agua Caliente - A Western Tragedy (Craig Rainey Publishing) is based upon the award-winning screenplay of the same title.

The Book Came from Craig Rainey's Roots

San Angelo, Texas was not much different in the ’60s, when I grew up there than it was in the late 1800’s and the early years of the twentieth century when my ancestors settled in the region. The car had replaced horse and buggy and we had a TV in every house with at least 3 stations available. But all one had to do was step outside, and the waning remnants of a passing era were easily recognizable in the fast-moving clouds and the warm acrid dust in the ever-present winds.

“Angelo”, as it was called by the natives, moved at its own pace. That pace was slow but not plodding. The hot days were oppressive, but you got used to it. Country wisdom was known simply as wisdom. Anyone without a west Texas drawl was a yankee, even if he was from only as far north as Dallas.

You respected your elders - and that was a tall order in a town populated by a large number of older west Texans. We didn’t give the respect reluctantly. We youngsters depended on the unerring guidance of our predecessors.

West Texas culture is not carried on as one might a religious dogma. The culture is something with which one is born: not necessarily a birthright, but rather an instinct as vital as the will to survive.

In the sixties, my grandparents, great grandparents, and their immediate families were celebrities in my view: they were the remaining witnesses and players in a rugged adventure only read about now. The significance of their first-person accounts was never lost upon me.

It seemed that the Old West lingered in west Texas as a passing stranger reluctantly leaves the comfort of a welcome fire. In those final days of the wild west, my great-uncle was the sheriff in Eldorado. After a vicious outlaw threatened to murder him in his sleep, he sat in his old rocker on his front porch where he waited through the night. A 12-gauge shotgun rested across his knees as he rocked and smoked cigarettes, ready for the vengeful outlaw to arrive in the dark to carry out his

Original Cover for the Novel
threat. My great-uncle was killed in the line of duty some years later, but he survived that night.

My great grandmother, Nanny, told stories of her youth where her family crossed Indian country in a covered wagon. Even in my boyhood, I remember the wagon livery which stood behind her old house, a large mound protecting the wagon and the occupants of the house from Indian attack. Many of my ancestors lived in nearby Paintrock where they battled angry redskins as a matter of course.

Growing up in the company of those who represented the last participants of a rich western heritage; and having been touched throughout my life by the magic of that oasis town at the edge of the vast sage and sand deserts to the west, it was no wonder that I craved the stories of the old west. In those days, western novels were popular and inexpensive. Max Brand entered my world from the disorganized contents of an ML Leddy and Son boot box on a table at a garage sale. My mother purchased several books there for she and my father to read – they were, and still are, voracious readers.

The western novels were quick reads for them. I was younger and slower at the skill. The stories were wonderous in their similarities to those stories of my forefathers and mothers. Privately, I read slowly, savoring every word. Publicly, I blamed much of my slow reading pace on my father as he directed me to keep a dictionary handy rather than trouble him incessantly for the definitions of unfamiliar words.

Max Brand was the master of western dialogue. His prose were exquisite turns of phrase, seasoned with a genuine delivery as only denizens of the old west could achieve. Zane Gray soon entered my worn paperback collection. My first Zane Gray novel was “Man of the Wilderness.” His descriptions were palpable and compelling. If he described cold and wet misery, I reached for a blanket. Hot desert scenes had me on my feet desperate for a glass of water.

My first efforts as a writer were less than admirable. I wrote my first story in my early teens. The characters were too perfect, and their motivations were painfully contrived. Although poorly conceived, those early imaginings were the tender seedlings of a strong desire which would beckon me all my life.

My Film Career created my Screenwriting Debut

I entered the film business in my late 30’s. I have heard that 90% of all film actors make less than $2,500.00 per year at the craft. My claim to fame was that I was among the top 10% - just barely. Recently I was described as a failed actor. That is a painful observation based upon how low the success bar is set.

After more than 60 films, commercials, industrials, and other video productions, I was considered a minor celebrity within the Austin/San Antonio film market. I rarely auditioned, yet I appeared in 3 to 4 projects per year.

One of the directors with whom I worked on more than 15 films cast me exclusively as the heavy in many of his movies. Once, I asked him why he never cast me as a lead in any of his films.

As he considered his response, he pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Finally, he told me that in the limited talent pool of the local industry there was no actor who could successfully convince an audience that a Craig Rainey character would have anything to fear from them. He blamed the predicament on my strong screen presence. He told me when he found a script where the bad guy was the lead character, he would surely cast me in that role.

Years later I worked with another film company, Mutt Productions, which made larger budget films better-known actors. I managed to land the lead antagonist role of The Mayor in the grindhouse film The Return of Johnny V. After acquiring the film, the distribution company requested a follow-up film falling in one of any of three genres including: science fiction, movies featuring animals, or westerns.
with

One of the producers with Mutt Productions asked if I knew of any available scripts for any of the genres. I said I didn’t, but of those listed I liked westerns. As we talked further, I recalled my conversation with the director with whom I had asked for a leading role. A glimmer of an idea struck me. I snapped out of my reverie and interrupted the producer’s continued conversation, announcing to him that I had an idea for a western film. After a few questions about my idea, which I could not answer, I promised to produce a summary or possibly a treatment for a screenplay.

Less than a month later, I had the treatment completed for Massacre at Agua Caliente. The producer loved the premise and offered to forward it to Hollywood where vetted screenwriters would create a full script. I asked if I might have a try at writing the screenplay. Reluctantly, the producer agreed. 30 days later, I had the first draft of the script completed.

The script was passed around to several production houses including two major film studios in Hollywood. Offers were made for the rights to the script. I turned them down, doggedly holding to the desire to play the main character – the villain. With the return of the script came notes on how the film companies thought the story might be improved. Everyone agreed that the story was too long and complex. The most common criticism I heard repeatedly complained that it was two movies in one and would be too expensive to make.

Ultimately, the script was shortened, and the main character was softened to increase his likeability with audiences. I submitted the screenplay to several festivals where it won many awards and official selections. Although the story was well-received over time the offers dwindled until the script was no longer the hot property it once was. After 3 years, I felt driven by a desire to write the complete story I had originally created before the edits and redactions. The novel would contain every scene and present the main character as I had intended in the original script.

The Novel is the Intended Story the Script Wasn't

As I began the novel, I saw in my imagination the story told in the style of the books I had read as a child. I wanted the novel to be an ode to those turn of the century authors I loved, and who had influenced me so greatly. To succeed, the dialogue had to be important and the imagery needed to jump off the page and grab the reader, pulling him or her into the midst of the characters.

Because a novel is filled with description that a script never contains, I found it necessary and critically important to research many of the places, people and events peripheral to my story. With few exceptions, the locations and references to outlaws and Indian tribes mentioned in the book are accurate. Hurrah City is a real place. The name was changed in the early twentieth century, but it is authentic to the period.

I completed the novel five years after the final version of the script. Four additional edits refined the style until I was satisfied with the work. I knew I risked a great deal by departing from the quick prose and spare descriptive styles of modern novels, but I wrote the novel with the idea that it would ultimately be a monument to the genre.

I am a reader, and I know the styles of popular authors. I enjoyed the Sackets of Louis L’Amour. The grit of Larry McMurtry enthralls me still. Both are masters of their craft: their styles wisely modern and swift. Still, I dared to risk the dangers of my throwback novel.

My intention was to bring my readers a taste of those turn-of-the-century authors with the modern sharp edge of my present-day favorites. I hope I have succeeded. Only you, the reader, can know for sure. No matter the reception of Massacre at Agua Caliente, my goal was achieved.

I was in San Angelo recently – my first visit in more than 15 years. A new expressway runs through the middle of town. The Twin Buttes seem smaller and less significant, and one must drive as far as Mertzon to feel the few remaining ghosts of the old west. I hope my first western novel is true to my dream of creating a turn-of-the-century style western novel.

Massacre at Agua Caliente - A Western Tragedy Synopsis
Craig Rainey's debut novel, Massacre at Agua Caliente, is based upon the award-winning screenplay of the same name. Masterfully written in the unique style of turn-of-the-century western authors, the action-packed story is beautifully crafted with rich description and colorfully authentic dialogue.
Massacre at Agua Caliente has been favorably reviewed by critics and readers alike for its unique story, writing style and interesting characters that leap from the page and make the reader care about them. The story is told through the eyes of the supporting characters, casting the main character, Boyd Hutton, in a shroud of mystery which never reveals his thoughts or ambitions. Only his actions give the reader any indication of his thoughts and motivations.

Boyd Hutton is a desperate and ruthless outlaw, known for his swift and deadly actions. His latest crime, the attempted robbery of the most secure bank in the western territories, ends with the destruction of his devoted gang of outlaws. Alone, he flees a posse and Texas Rangers. He is joined along the way by the young Cab Jackson, who helps the outlaw across the Rio Grande into Mexico where Hutton continues his crime wave. One evening Hutton and Jackson happen upon a Quinceanera where Alida, the daughter of a powerful Mexican official, is being celebrated. Hutton encounters Juliana, Alida's elder sister. Unexpectedly, Juliana's interest in the tall stranger turns into a desperate fight for her life as Hutton kidnaps her and eludes the immediate pursuit of her father's men.

Juliana will learn that despite the efforts of her father, the Mexican army, and relentless bounty hunters, she will have to rely on a courage and inner strength she never knew she possessed. Torn from her life of luxury and privilege, her life on the run in an unforgiving wilderness changes her. As the kidnappers elude desperate rescue efforts, Juliana presents Hutton an opponent unlike any he has ever before faced. Before the end of her ordeal, Juliana will grow to learn much about her father, her captors, and to her surprise, her own abilities and strengths.