Bowie V. Ibarra's Blog, page 8
March 17, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH: Chapter 5 - The Rockstar Realization and the Delicate Balance...
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“T-T-T-Totally, dude”- Shop Boyz, “Party like a Rockstar”
Chapter V: The Rockstar Realization and the delicate balance
I’ll never forget the night when I realized the Texas Rollergirls were going to be bigger than the Beatles, and it looked like the gang and I were going to be allowed to ride their coattails. A game was scheduled in Dallas, Texas. A ragtag travel team of available Texas Rollergirls was to promote flat track for a league of eager north Texas rollergirls hungry for derby action. Assassination City rollergirls would be our host, and the crosstown rivals, the Dallas Derby Devils, would also be in attendance. Both teams had been practicing and were soon to make their marks in the annals of flat track derby. The rollergirls had procured a travel bus for the trip. It was a very special bus that, from what I remember, Gibson guitar sponsored. I would join a contingent of rollergirls and coaches in this vehicle, riding up to Dallas and back in style. The bus was a large white vehicle that somehow reminded me of a mass transit bus you would see in New York City, or the Austin Capital Metro Bus. One side of the bus was a large tinted window and I seem to remember some kind of transparent promotional poster on one side. The interior was nice as well: leather seats and a big karaoke machine. It was also equipped with lots and lots of space for drinks, and geez did these girls fill up those ice chests. As we hit the road, the girls began playing on the karaoke machine. Maybe I have not been to enough karaoke bars, but these girls really rocked to every song they played. It was certainly a contrast to the last karaoke bar I was at….. It was on my honeymoon. My newly wedded wife and I took our honeymoon two weeks after our wedding in Padre Island. Before I go on, let me suggest to everyone reading this book who is planning on getting married to take your honeymoon immediately after the wedding. Do not take several days off. Go straight there. The trip felt two weeks too late, and though we have preserved some great vacation moments on film and video, the time between the wedding and honeymoon was too far apart to be fun. Anyway, Padre was probably the last place we should have gone for our honeymoon as the place, being off season so to speak (with “season” being two weeks every year in March), was like being in an earthbound purgatory. The people running every dive along the coastline seemed to be cursed to work the place from open to close forever. I think the people working for the owners were also serving some cosmic indentured servitude as well, as their moping and shambling speed reminded me of a George Romero movie. When you are a “land lubber” like myself, you tend to expect things like good customer service and smiles from the people you are handing money to. I will never forget on about the third day we went to this dive. I knew the owner was very obviously some long lost descendant of Sisyphus. The guy never smiled and it took the third visit to realize why. As I walked into his coastline establishment on that third visit, it was abundantly clear the man had been driven insane, destined to listen to the King of the Parrotheads, Jimmy Buffett himself, until he shuffles off this mortal coil. On each and every visit, I heard “Cheeseburger in Paradise” at least twice each time. It annoyed me and I was only there for a little while each time. That guy was having his soul scourged every hour of every day of the year for eternity. It must have been like hearing animals slaughtered, or listening to Chip Queso calling a game. A fate worse than death. At any rate, the mainland was just as bad. Before XXXXXX and I were to engage in one of our first big fights as a married couple, we traveled to a bar for some drinks. In a bar right next to ours, it was karaoke night. But not like a fun karaoke night, but the karaoke nigh of lost souls. I have never heard more depressing songs sung horribly in a row before. A room full of souls fit for a group suicide. Where’s Jim Jones and his bowl of Kool-Aid when you need it? Anyway, so the Dallas trip…. The girls rocked the karaoke machine. While listening to the songs, I overheard a couple of girls quoting “Napoleon Dynamite”, a movie that connected to many people at the time. In an effort to join the quote-a-thon and be friendly, I did my best Pedro presidential stump speech. “Hello. I don’t have much to say except that I’d like to get some holy santos to put up in the hallways to protect the kids and bring good luck.” It was greeted with lukewarm appreciation. Apart from learning their names at practices, I had never really hung out with the girls. They seemed untouchable to me. Specifically, they were the stars, I was just a voice meant to get them over with the crowds. I was hanging out with “Kool Aid” for the most part, but Crazy Dukes was very amicable as well. There was an interesting vulnerability to her. Throughout the trip, she would make comments that drew laughs from everyone around her. Unfortunately, they were chuckles of the “laugh-at-you” variety. It was actually kind of charming. Someone else who was very cool to me on the trip that I never expected to ever hold a conversation with was Dinah Mite. Sure she was an athletic dream physically, I was more in awe at her status as one of the greatest flat trackers in the league. I kept a respectful distance, more out of reverence than 7th grade “fear of the pretty girl”. Through scattered conversation, I found out she was a metal head. She apparently was a big fan of Megadeth, which somehow took me by surprise. Considering she posed in an artfully done nude photo with an electric guitar covering her naughty bits for a local rock station, it somehow made sense. Her Aquarius air complemented my Aries fire and we got along as casual acquaintances. We arrived at the venue to little fanfare. It seemed like we were early and in a part of town that was not like I pictured. The place was called “What’s Fun World”. It was your standard skate place: Part Chucky Cheese, part ‘70’s retro, and a little stinky. I somehow remember it being very purple. When we got there, girls were gearing up and skating on the track. The track itself was a stark contrast to the Playland surface. This Dallas track was a textured rubber material colored and designed for kids, built for grip. It was going to be very fast. It would be an interesting night for the girls on this new surface. Slowly, the crowd started filtering in. A contingent of Triple D’s (Dallas Derby Devils) had also shown up. I seem to recall the Assassination City girls were once part of the Devils. The “start-a-league-then-split” trend started with us and seems to be a tradition with many teams to this day. Since it was a special bout, I made sure to dress up nice and special. I put on my off-white dinner jacket, black slacks, and black bow tie with suspenders. Pretty sharp. Stylin’ and profilin’ as always. The announce team had a mic issue, with two mics being set up in two very different areas. It was an interesting coordination, but we made it work. Chip and Whiskey stayed on the floor while Jim and I stood in a booth above the floor. At this point, our performances were still very informal with no set times to speak, but we had our titles. Those titles had no bearing on when to talk, although they probably should have as the years developed. Though in our early days our announcing was quite informal, there was still a sense of competition, of claiming a bit of territory among the announce team. It somehow went unsaid, but we all seemed to feel like flat track was going to take off and we all wanted to lay claim to our small fiefdom within the league. In my opinion, the senority of being a part of the first flat track league was beginning to show in the dynamic of the announce team. With Les’ departure at the beginning of the second season, we were left with no real leadership. As a professional, Les took the reigns and really defined our roles in the beginning. There was a definite learning curve and a lot of growth still needed for our crew. But as a team, some of our growth was taking a different evolutionary path. And like evolution, it was making itself stronger in order to thrive. On this night, it was the least of our worries as we had to deal with an infiltrator to our ranks: Pinky. Pinky was one of the original Texas Rollergirls and served her team, the Hot Rod Honey’s, with honor and skill. Pinky was very slender, but very capable, with a reputation for dislocating her shoulder. I remember the first championship game in which she took a tumble and shifted her shoulder out of joint. I watched in horror her shoulderbone jutting out beneath her flesh at a very unnatural angle. It was even more horrifying to watch the medical crew attempt to put it back in. The condition led to her retirement. So on this night in Dallas, Pinky was apparently assigned to the announce team. She joined Jim and I in the booth. It was not the most pleasant of set ups. As a “less is more” proponent, four voices is a lot when gone unchecked. Five is way too many in our group of unchecked voices. Jim and I were having a hard time figuring out how to tell her she was not doing so well. Again, it was our lack of authority. No one was in charge, formally, so no one could really tell her how to perform on the mic. She was alright in the end, but there was a lot of grabbing of the mic out of our hands on this night. The crowd was also very cool, too. For Dallas. I halfway expected girls with big hair and Rocky Mountain jeans, but was quite wrong. The venue was BYOB, so people could bring their own drinks. A couple walked in with a case of Milwaukee’s Best and graciously gave me one. O.K., maybe I asked for it, but it was still cool of them. The bout was a lot of fun despite the tension and we were ready for the afterparty. Before the bus took off, I got a chance to talk to Vendetta von Dutch, who stepped on the bus for a few moments to check it out. She was clad in a leather jacket with a large Kiss Army patch. Though it was a stupid question, I asked if she was a fan. Stupid, sure. But it was a chance to get in the head of one of my favorite rollergirls. I asked her a controversial KISS question: with or without makeup. As a true fan, her answer was for me to ignore their unmasked body of work. When asked what one album I should have of Kiss, she quickly stated “Double Platinum” is the must have KISS CD. Before long, the trip to the afterparty began, and I really was surprised at how wild many of these girls were. It was kind of like being with a bunch of guys in a football beer league. Drinks were passed around and they even pulled over at one point so a couple of rollergirls could pee under a bridge. We were about to pull in to the location of the afterparty when Crazy Duke’s boyfriend called. He allegedly had an eye for trouble and had arrived before we got there. He “cased” the bar and claimed there could be trouble brewing. It made sense to me as it was Dallas and my perception of the people of the city did not jive with a bus load of free-spirited Austinites, despite being hosted by like-minded Dallas girls. The bus pulled up in front of the bar. A small crowd had gathered outside. It was a little surprising to me. As we stood to exit the bus, Jim Jones stood behind me and, patting me on the shoulder, whispered “We’re rock stars, man.” It was a bit of a shock as the people cheered for the rollergirls and how I was fortunate to be a part of this moment. I placed my hands together in a votive gesture, bowing to the fans before shaking a few hands. It was an amazing feeling. I had never considered Jim’s perception of the event, but it seemed a precise observation. The bar was nice, though edgy enough to house a rollergirl afterparty. The DJ was Dallas chic and sophisticated, playing his musical set over the loudspeaker from his I-Pod and a modest mixer. That alone amazed me at the time, even though the technology has advanced that much since then. But it was a reminder of the kind of money I always picture people in Dallas having. Naturally, the girls made themselves at home, and I must admit, I felt a little out of place. It would not be the last time. Dinah came up and talked to me briefly, which was cool. But apart from that, most of the girls were bathing in their well deserved glory. I did try to socialize a bit. A blonde lady standing near a pool table motioned to me to talk to her. I should have known she was trouble, and not the rollergirl by the same name. She was the literal definition of the word. She asked where we were from, and we began a conversation about flat track derby when her hulking boyfriend strode to the pool table. He heard her comment that she wanted to be a rollergirl, and her boyfriend drew the conclusion that she, “didn’t eat enough pussy to be a rollergirl” before threatening me to stay away from his girl. The last thing I needed was to have some juiced up musclehead try to pound me into the ground. Fights are always very appealing to me, but rationally impractical. Returning home beat up and bloody is kind of a hard situation to explain to the wife. And what would happen to my white dinner jacket. That would be the saddest part of all. So I amicably finished the conversation despite the glare from Captain Steroid and said goodbye to the lady, feeling more alone than ever. I found my male collegues in the restroom and the moment felt abuzz with lustful intentions. Jim was struggling with his devotion to his girlfriend and seducing a rollergirl. Chip, in the midst of a divorce, seemed to be living vicariously through Jim, following him like the little Chihuahua that follows the big bulldog in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. In a moment of clarity, I told Jim if the pull to this particular ‘girl was so strong, he needed to respond to it and dump his girlfriend. I explained there would be a time when he would not have the opportunity again, so he needed to live in the moment. It was pretty much a commentary on my situation. Having joined the rollergirls just months before getting married, it was a bit of a difficult transition. Being around so many cool girls, I had to really adjust my feelings toward them. It was kind of a mental conditioning, a reeducation and hard change of perception that would occasionally make me aloof, ignoring obvious charms. But do I completely ignore my female friends in derby. Absolutely not. Though my female friends in derby are few and far between (read: several hundred miles, in most cases), I have never crossed the line with any of them and have remained faithful to my wife and child. If anything, I have kept things social with a drink and conversation, which are super rare. Some people are just really cool and I’d like to get to know them in the social setting. This was at the heart of my discomfort, being at the mercy of this travel team. More on that later. Vendetta and her husband, 8-Track, and myself decided to escape the bar for a few moments and try to find a place to eat. It turned into a cool little adventure. Apparently, we were in the portion of the city that was the couple’s old stomping ground. Vendetta’s husband was a tall, gruff man with a small ‘50’s style quaff of hair and a ducktail, stubble, a cigarette and a leather jacket. The boots he wore were probably worn to many of the same places he was describing. “There used to be a bar in that building there that was kick ass, but now it sucks. There was one over there where I got into a fight once. But the people that go there now suck.” It was our very own punk rock travelogue of Dallas, a scene I would never thought the city could have. We found a place we thought was open. It turned out they just stopped serving food. Dallas certainly was not like Austin. On the way through the shop to use the restroom, I said hello to an aspiring Assassin who was looking cute in leg warmers and pumps. On the way back, 8-Track called me out, commenting that she saw me making time with the girl. Maybe, but it was just a fleeting moment and did not mean anything after the moment itself. I cannot even recall what the brief conversation was about. The evening was wrapping up and we were about to load onto the bus once again. I was feeling rather nauseous, as the stagnant smoke of the bar had given me a headache coupled with the tummy ache the beer had provided me ever so generously. I knew the bus trip home was going to be very unpleasant. So I needed to find a place to throw up. I stepped about a block away from the bus to try and throw up to no avail. “Kool Aid” even tried to gag me with his finger, once again to no avail. He even offered to choke me with his schlong, but I politely refused. Now that’s a friend for you. I remember going back on the bus and seeing Punk Rock Phil flat on his back in the back of the bus. The smoke and beer had got to him, too. I remember how enormous his belly looked as he groaned in misery. Phil refused to throw up, claiming proudly he had never thrown up over drinking in his life. I’d never met the guy formally and seemed to be a real superfan as far as I knew. I’m pretty sure he’s a coach today, and could not tell you his relationship to any rollergirl at this point. The proceeding three to four hour back were the most miserable four hours I have ever spent in my life. Had the bus been a traditional bus, it might have been a good trip. But the positioning of the seats in limousine style instead of traditional bus seats, so it was nearly impossible to sit comfortably. Not to mention White Lightnin’ and several other girls proceeding to party the rest of the trip, being very loud and hilariously obnoxious. Those girls definitely know how to party. We arrived back at Playland very early the next morning. Monday morning traffic was already congesting the highways and the bright sun was poking my eyes. Dinah Mite went back on a promise to lend me her MegaDeth CD. I guess she was just as tired as I was and ready to get home. Or just plain forgot she said she’d lend it to me. I still had to negotiate the morning traffic to get home. I was miserable, but my body was providing me with a little energy, the initial morning boost before the body figures out its out of gas. Though the ride up was enjoyable and the call average, in the end, I’m not sure if taking the bus was worth it. Arriving home so very late to my wife to our new home and infant child, I felt very guilty. There was no real welcome home when I finally got back. XXXXX was left alone for an entire day with the baby. It probably would not be a big deal if it was work, but it wasn’t. I came home with nothing to show but a cruel exhaustion that would only build more resentment in my wife toward the rollergirls. / / / / / /
This sounds like an appropriate time to talk about how I met my wife, and the greatest wedding ever.
March 14, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - Chapter 4: The Girls of the Flat-Track Derby Revolution...
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“The eyes of Texas are upon you all the live long day…”- from the traditional song of Texas “The Eyes of Texas”
Chapter IV: The Girls of the Texas Flat Track Derby Revolution I have always found “warrior women” types appealing. I think it was from my great appreciation for Richard Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” from his opera, “Die Walkure”. Maybe it was Linda Carter’s “Wonder Woman” from my youth. Or maybe its just my not-so-secret leg, ankle, and female shoe fetish. At any rate, working with the roller girls while engaged and subsequently married was a bit of an emotional and sexual struggle for myself, an inner conflict between the Freudian id and superego. The girls were a wild bunch in the beginning. A bizarre conglomeration of punks, teachers, mothers, vamps, wives, librarians, party girls, and athletes, to name a few of the categories you could put the girls into. Thought they all came from different backgrounds, I was pleasantly surprised at how sincerely nice and amicable they all were. Sure some were surly on occasion and most everyone had an attitude, but they were always respectful when greeted with respect. The following is a list of some of the now legendary girls that made an impression on me as athletes, skaters, and people. The list is not nowhere near comprehensive. Dinah-Mite will be remembered by me as one of the first living legend in flat track derby. Granted, many more have been born since (read: Snot Rocket, The Vecchio sisters, Beyonslay), but she was the first, in my opinion. Dinah Mite was the prototype of the ultimate roller girl. Blockers routinely bounced off of her when she jamed, effortlessly blowing them off and skating past them. Dinah really caught on to the game fast. A gorgeous blonde mother with the tanned body of a mythical Amazon warrior, she was pretty much unstoppable and shimmied and moved around the track like she owned it during the early days of flat track. She was an expert not only as jammer, but at pivot and blocker. Flat track, and injuries, finally caught up to the phenom, but she will forever have the reputation of being one of the best ever. If there ever is a Flat Track Hall of Fame, she would be my nomination for Charter membership. White Lightning’ - In my opinion, the meanest, baddest roller girl to ever put on a pair of quads, and probably my favorite rollergirl ever, second to none. Ever. I stand by that. Sure there are some cruel players: Pussy Velour, Cat Tastrophe, Anna R. Key, Starr Doom, Choco Ono, or Mummy Dearest and Osa Peligrosa, but no one has skated with the skill, proficiency, and destructive power of White Lightnin’. The girl blocked with vicious efficiency and played the jammer position like a blocker, taking out jammers as well as blockers while racking up points. She pretty much attacked any player in a different jersey regardless of the necessity. One of the only roller girls to say they have taken out Dinah Mite on several different occasions. Only Doe Holliday of the Tucson Saddletramps and Curvette have come close to comparing to White Lightnin’. Easily at the top of my list of favorite roller girls ever. On a humorous note, during a practice, I watched White Lightnin’ take out Sparkle Plenty with a cruel block. Sparkle quickly got up, and with the lighthearted humor of Miss Plenty, commented on the hit with a big smile and words to the effect of, “Yeah, White Lightnin’ hit me. It hurt pretty bad, I’m not going to lie to you.” And that was during practice.
Anna Mosity - Similar to White Lightnin’, but cut from a very different cloth. Another in the early tradition of cruel blockers, Anna Mosity had no problem mixing it up with anyone who stepped in her path on the track or off of it, regardless of gender. Anytime anyone hit her on the track, she made them pay. She was one of the earliest enforcers of the Hell Marys. Whether she was on the track or off of it, you could bet she was going to get in a fight. I watched Anna Mosity get in a fight at a bar with Pixie Tourette while organizing the first Whammies at the Jackalope. Both girls were swinging wild at each other and knocking over tables. Anna Mosity and Rolletta Lynn had a fierce rivalry on the track. I once watched Anna tackle Rolleta, take the mount and smash Rolletta’s head into the track until she got a concussion. She was the enforcer for the Hell Mary’s, even taking on takeout artist Bettie Rage that caused a bench clearing brawl and an award for Best Fight for her team (Best Fight 2005 - Bettie Rage vs. The Hell Mary’s, featuring Anna Mosity). Anna was a fierce rival of fellow roughneck Barbie Crash. A fight was guaranteed when the Hells played the Honkeys and those two hit the track. Anna Mosity was best known for her panties, and started the Rollergirls trend of having writing on panties. Written in stark white on her black panties, “Nuns Suck” would be one of the earliest forms of effective audience teases the flat track derby world has ever known. One of her earliest pictures, with Strawberry pulling up Anna’s skirt, revealing the writing as she coquettishly bit a fingernail, was rumored to have been painted on the wall of an art school. It was pretty much assured that those attending the bout would see her round ass, which, in my opinion, built her a solid fan base. Her ass put asses in seats. Anna Mosity was the embodiment of the roller girl ethos: tough as nails and sexy as all-get-out. Anna is one of very few roller girls I can sincerely call a friend, and I was saddened at her retirement. I recently saw her at a derby event, but have not seen her since. I genuinely hope she is doing well. Despite her being out of derby, in my opinion, her legacy remains.
Pixie Tourette - Sexy, sassy, and nuclear physicist smart, Pixie Tourette is another girl that drips with sex appeal but has a very rough exterior. Pale white, bleached blonde, and walking the earth with the sexiest pair of legs to ever grace a derby rink, Pixie is one of the wild cards of the Hot Rods. When this California native is on, she’s an efficient blocker that takes jammers out with a scientific efficiency. She once took out Dinah Mite and was nominated for Best Take Out 2004. I had to pick the winner, and wanted to pick her despite the audience opinion. A flirt of the highest order, her sexual aggression was tempered by her nerdy charm. Short tempered at times, Pixie once delivered the vaunted pro-wrestling “Heart Punch” to me in the middle of a bar after telling her I thought her team did well in the championship game the Hot Rods lost. I still have irregular heart beats.
Misty Meaner - When I think of the Hell Mary’s, the first image that comes to my mind is of Misty Meaner skating around the track. Misty was the most graceful, calm, and intriguing roller girl I’ve ever known. I remember during the first season, when Misty would become the lead jammer, she skated with a kind of calm grace, a stoic determination to perform her job and rack up points for her team. Maybe it was her eyes, perpetually stuck in a gaze that made you think she was sleepy. It was as if she was emotionless, or perhaps like a poker player, putting up a façade as not to reveal how she was feeling to her opponents. Whatever it was, she was one of the most beautiful visions to hit the track. I’ll never forget the following season, when that stern, almost apathetic, look on her face turned into stern determination. There was an intensity in her face that made you know she was going to rack up points, take out roller girls, or whatever it took for her team to win. She even told me she had visions of victory, dreaming about flat track bouts. As an announcer, I turned it into something in regards to their gimmick. I would say she had visions, in which angels from God were speaking to her, providing her with information for her bout. Misty Meaner was always one of my favorites, and I was sad to see her retire.
Vendetta von Dutch - One of the first roller girls I ever met, and easily the coolest roller girl ever. If roller derby had at its roots a punk rock mentality, then Vendetta von Dutch was the poster girl for flat track. Tattoed, caked in make up, and punk-rock glamorous, Vendetta kicked ass on the track. I thought she was the coolest roller girl, so when I heard she did not like my intro for her (“She’s the best part of Italy and the worst part of Germany), I immediately changed it. She was one of the first roller girls I met the very first day I came out to learn my role. Amicable, witty, and bitingly honest, Vendetta was a great friend. Vendetta and Misty were actually two of the girls that my wife actually thought were cool when she was giving derby a chance. Both of them talked to my wife like she was an old friend from the neighborhood, making her feel safe. Vendetta’s husband was punk rock for life. Both of them, from Dallas, knew the punk rock scene intimately, and even took me for a tour of their old stomping grounds after a show in Dallas. Flat track provided a much needed outlet for Vendetta. The story goes that Vendetta actually made the three hour drive from Dallas several times a week to make practice in the early days of derby. A librarian by trade, Vendetta is very popular with the young kids she works with. She says the kids refer to her as “the librarian with two different color hair”, referring to her bleached blonde highlights streaking her black hair. Some of the funniest things said over the mike have been said by Vendetta. When thrown in the penalty box by refs during the Hot Rod/Dairyland bout, Jim Jones made the mistake of asking her a question in the box. She responded with one of the funniest lines I’ve ever heard, considering her trip to the box an award: “I’d like to thank all the bitches that made that penalty possible.” Vendetta von Dutch represents the rebellious soul that is flat track derby.
Cat Tastrophe - Gorgeous, spunky, and irritable, Cat Tastrophe has always been someone I’m careful when approaching. A Leo, she is very temperamental, and could sometimes be found coming to practices in tears. Despite her unpredictable temperament, she has established a legacy of determined efficiency and dependability for her team, the Hot Rod Honeys. Initially, Cat Tastrophe was a noted rival of Dinah Mite. Many even compared here skills and talents to the purple clad Hustler. In my opinion, no roller girl since the beginning has consistently been a test for Dinah as Cat has been. Watching her over the years, I have learned one thing: you cross the Cat, you pay dearly for it. You can almost see her writing her shit list as the game progresses, promising in her mind that the person that dared lay a hand on her or say a bad word to her is going to be punished for it. I once watched her cold cock then rookie Belle Starr with a right hook at the end of a period, flooring the rookie in surprised astonishment. Whether you agree with it or not, Cat Tastrophe is the Queen of any flat track she sets skate on. She will expect that respect from everyone who steps on it with her, and will literally destroy anyone who stands in her or her team’s way. You have been warned.
Rolletta Lynn - Rolletta Lynn is one of the first that I ever considered hardcore. Friendly and quirky, Rolletta was a serious competitor when it came to flat track. She was known to work closely with teammate Patsy Crime. I realized how serious the girls were one night when Rolletta was knocked to the ground near turn three. She hit the floor hard and had not even had the chance to shake off the pain when she was met with a skate right in her face. The skate hit her right in the mouth, and without missing a beat, she got to her feet to finish the jam. After getting checked by the medical staff, she returned to the game and finished. “She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore!” Rolletta currently lends her skills to the Queens of Pain of the Gotham Girls Rollerderby league in New York.
Voodoo Doll - Sexy is an understatement in reference to this tall drink of water. I don’t think it’s too bold to say that never has there been and never will there be a roller girls dripping with knowing sexuality as Voodoo Doll. In the early days, she was probably one of the original fan favorites, with whole websites devoted to her worship, literally. Virtual altars erected (no pun intended) in devotion to her. Apparently born and raised in the southernmost portions of Texas, Voodoo had a hard time in her youth being such a tall and stunningly beautiful young “guera”. She gained her toughness fighting groups of “cholas” jealous of her beauty. Stories abound of whole bars becoming silent when she entered and exited, with all eyes dumbfounded at her beauty. I found Voodoo Doll to be a very friendly and approachable lady. She had no problem with a person that was respectful to her and didn’t make a big deal about her looks. Recently, she gave birth to a baby with her husband, a noted Capoeria stylist. She has yet to return to the track.
The Crusher – In the mold of the legendary 8-Track, Thaaaaaaaaa Crusher was a menacing force on eight wheels. One of the few rollergirls to have Dinah Mite’s number on a consistent basis. Though she had a very bright future in derby, she was permanently sidelined by injuries. 8-Track - Probably the most dominant and skillful blocker in flat track history. She was honored with the title of “Dust Devil MVP” at the first Dust Devil. Mean as a junkyard dog on the track, she was a kind and loving person off the track. She held my baby girl Gwendolyn while her loser dad was taking pictures during a derby photo shoot. My baby fell asleep in her arms.
Muffin Tumble - Cute, compact, and combative, Muffin Tumble is a sultry assassin on wheels. Her development as a skater was consistent and rapid, and she is now one of the power players for the Hell Mary’s. Barbie Crash – There are rough players and there are mean players. And then there are dirty players. Barbie Crash’s audacious disregard for the rules of derby would make Rat City blush and say, “Hey, wait. That’s dirty.” I dubbed Barbie Crash “The Dirtiest Player in the Game” as, in my eyes, she flagrantly disregarded every rule in the book to gain an advantage. And she was good at it, too. She had a knack for knowing when refs weren’t looking to execute her diabolical strategies. She was always ready for a fight, too.
Sparkle Plenty – The now legendary Sparkle Plenty is a tall and very slender Boricua, though you would not know that fact due to her very fair complexion. I must admit, she set an example of the potential for rollergirls for me as the seasons progressed and proved to me that the sport is all inclusive when it comes to size and shape. I thought she would be knocked around the track like a rag doll in the early days, but watched as she would own other rollergirls with superior technical skill and a grace that is unique to her. Sparkle was responsible for the first set of rules of flat track, and many of the guidelines and set up were initiated by her. She is also an effective speaker and leader, having to wrangle the massive “personalities” of the announce team with superior wit, intellect, and an enigmatic use of timing in choosing her words. Buckshot Betsy – Gorgeous Honky jammer and flat track legend. Unique, but fit build, Buckshot became one of the faces of the Honky Tonk Heartbreakers in their three year dynasty before defecting to the Hell Mary’s. If you face a Texas All-Star team, you will have to compete against Buckshot.
Sedonya Face – From the planet LoveTron, Sedonya has been a permanent fixture for the Hustlers in her legendary career. An enforcer for the Hustlers, she is known to speak her mind in defense of her team whenever and to whoever.
Dottie Karate – Dottie Karate, or Karate Dottie in the proper Japanese sense, will forever be one of my favorites. We both shared an appreciation of Japanese culture that melded into my intro for her, announcing her name like the Japanese pro-wrestling announcers I listened to via bootleg videos. Kara-tay DAH-taaaaaaaaaaayyyy!!! Her gimmick helped me live out my dream of announcing wrestlers at the Tokyo Egg Dome in Japan. Every time.
Bettie Rage – Apart from the Rat City team, I don’t think there is a single rollergirl who has been met with utter contempt on the track then Bettie Rage, and I love it. Bettie is 100% more subtle than her former Honky Barbie Crash, but just as sinister. With skillful glee, she will take out jammers by any means necessary, and have no problem doing it. On the podcast for the Honky/Seattle DLF bout, after taking on a DLF member and failing in the attempt, I got her over as a take-out artist. In the background you can hear an angry rollergirl yell, “Betty Rage, you fuckin’ bitch”, before she groans and yells, “You Cheater”. When you can get a fan that enraged and engaged in the game, you’re doing something right. Strawberry – One of the legendary Hell Mary’s team players. Evident from the first day I laid eyes on her, Strawberry had the greatest hair in flat track, second to none. She is also notable for her flair for the dramatic when calling off a jam.
=====
More to come...
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“The eyes of Texas are upon you all the live long day…”- from the traditional song of Texas “The Eyes of Texas”
Chapter IV: The Girls of the Texas Flat Track Derby Revolution I have always found “warrior women” types appealing. I think it was from my great appreciation for Richard Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” from his opera, “Die Walkure”. Maybe it was Linda Carter’s “Wonder Woman” from my youth. Or maybe its just my not-so-secret leg, ankle, and female shoe fetish. At any rate, working with the roller girls while engaged and subsequently married was a bit of an emotional and sexual struggle for myself, an inner conflict between the Freudian id and superego. The girls were a wild bunch in the beginning. A bizarre conglomeration of punks, teachers, mothers, vamps, wives, librarians, party girls, and athletes, to name a few of the categories you could put the girls into. Thought they all came from different backgrounds, I was pleasantly surprised at how sincerely nice and amicable they all were. Sure some were surly on occasion and most everyone had an attitude, but they were always respectful when greeted with respect. The following is a list of some of the now legendary girls that made an impression on me as athletes, skaters, and people. The list is not nowhere near comprehensive. Dinah-Mite will be remembered by me as one of the first living legend in flat track derby. Granted, many more have been born since (read: Snot Rocket, The Vecchio sisters, Beyonslay), but she was the first, in my opinion. Dinah Mite was the prototype of the ultimate roller girl. Blockers routinely bounced off of her when she jamed, effortlessly blowing them off and skating past them. Dinah really caught on to the game fast. A gorgeous blonde mother with the tanned body of a mythical Amazon warrior, she was pretty much unstoppable and shimmied and moved around the track like she owned it during the early days of flat track. She was an expert not only as jammer, but at pivot and blocker. Flat track, and injuries, finally caught up to the phenom, but she will forever have the reputation of being one of the best ever. If there ever is a Flat Track Hall of Fame, she would be my nomination for Charter membership. White Lightning’ - In my opinion, the meanest, baddest roller girl to ever put on a pair of quads, and probably my favorite rollergirl ever, second to none. Ever. I stand by that. Sure there are some cruel players: Pussy Velour, Cat Tastrophe, Anna R. Key, Starr Doom, Choco Ono, or Mummy Dearest and Osa Peligrosa, but no one has skated with the skill, proficiency, and destructive power of White Lightnin’. The girl blocked with vicious efficiency and played the jammer position like a blocker, taking out jammers as well as blockers while racking up points. She pretty much attacked any player in a different jersey regardless of the necessity. One of the only roller girls to say they have taken out Dinah Mite on several different occasions. Only Doe Holliday of the Tucson Saddletramps and Curvette have come close to comparing to White Lightnin’. Easily at the top of my list of favorite roller girls ever. On a humorous note, during a practice, I watched White Lightnin’ take out Sparkle Plenty with a cruel block. Sparkle quickly got up, and with the lighthearted humor of Miss Plenty, commented on the hit with a big smile and words to the effect of, “Yeah, White Lightnin’ hit me. It hurt pretty bad, I’m not going to lie to you.” And that was during practice.
Anna Mosity - Similar to White Lightnin’, but cut from a very different cloth. Another in the early tradition of cruel blockers, Anna Mosity had no problem mixing it up with anyone who stepped in her path on the track or off of it, regardless of gender. Anytime anyone hit her on the track, she made them pay. She was one of the earliest enforcers of the Hell Marys. Whether she was on the track or off of it, you could bet she was going to get in a fight. I watched Anna Mosity get in a fight at a bar with Pixie Tourette while organizing the first Whammies at the Jackalope. Both girls were swinging wild at each other and knocking over tables. Anna Mosity and Rolletta Lynn had a fierce rivalry on the track. I once watched Anna tackle Rolleta, take the mount and smash Rolletta’s head into the track until she got a concussion. She was the enforcer for the Hell Mary’s, even taking on takeout artist Bettie Rage that caused a bench clearing brawl and an award for Best Fight for her team (Best Fight 2005 - Bettie Rage vs. The Hell Mary’s, featuring Anna Mosity). Anna was a fierce rival of fellow roughneck Barbie Crash. A fight was guaranteed when the Hells played the Honkeys and those two hit the track. Anna Mosity was best known for her panties, and started the Rollergirls trend of having writing on panties. Written in stark white on her black panties, “Nuns Suck” would be one of the earliest forms of effective audience teases the flat track derby world has ever known. One of her earliest pictures, with Strawberry pulling up Anna’s skirt, revealing the writing as she coquettishly bit a fingernail, was rumored to have been painted on the wall of an art school. It was pretty much assured that those attending the bout would see her round ass, which, in my opinion, built her a solid fan base. Her ass put asses in seats. Anna Mosity was the embodiment of the roller girl ethos: tough as nails and sexy as all-get-out. Anna is one of very few roller girls I can sincerely call a friend, and I was saddened at her retirement. I recently saw her at a derby event, but have not seen her since. I genuinely hope she is doing well. Despite her being out of derby, in my opinion, her legacy remains.
Pixie Tourette - Sexy, sassy, and nuclear physicist smart, Pixie Tourette is another girl that drips with sex appeal but has a very rough exterior. Pale white, bleached blonde, and walking the earth with the sexiest pair of legs to ever grace a derby rink, Pixie is one of the wild cards of the Hot Rods. When this California native is on, she’s an efficient blocker that takes jammers out with a scientific efficiency. She once took out Dinah Mite and was nominated for Best Take Out 2004. I had to pick the winner, and wanted to pick her despite the audience opinion. A flirt of the highest order, her sexual aggression was tempered by her nerdy charm. Short tempered at times, Pixie once delivered the vaunted pro-wrestling “Heart Punch” to me in the middle of a bar after telling her I thought her team did well in the championship game the Hot Rods lost. I still have irregular heart beats.
Misty Meaner - When I think of the Hell Mary’s, the first image that comes to my mind is of Misty Meaner skating around the track. Misty was the most graceful, calm, and intriguing roller girl I’ve ever known. I remember during the first season, when Misty would become the lead jammer, she skated with a kind of calm grace, a stoic determination to perform her job and rack up points for her team. Maybe it was her eyes, perpetually stuck in a gaze that made you think she was sleepy. It was as if she was emotionless, or perhaps like a poker player, putting up a façade as not to reveal how she was feeling to her opponents. Whatever it was, she was one of the most beautiful visions to hit the track. I’ll never forget the following season, when that stern, almost apathetic, look on her face turned into stern determination. There was an intensity in her face that made you know she was going to rack up points, take out roller girls, or whatever it took for her team to win. She even told me she had visions of victory, dreaming about flat track bouts. As an announcer, I turned it into something in regards to their gimmick. I would say she had visions, in which angels from God were speaking to her, providing her with information for her bout. Misty Meaner was always one of my favorites, and I was sad to see her retire.
Vendetta von Dutch - One of the first roller girls I ever met, and easily the coolest roller girl ever. If roller derby had at its roots a punk rock mentality, then Vendetta von Dutch was the poster girl for flat track. Tattoed, caked in make up, and punk-rock glamorous, Vendetta kicked ass on the track. I thought she was the coolest roller girl, so when I heard she did not like my intro for her (“She’s the best part of Italy and the worst part of Germany), I immediately changed it. She was one of the first roller girls I met the very first day I came out to learn my role. Amicable, witty, and bitingly honest, Vendetta was a great friend. Vendetta and Misty were actually two of the girls that my wife actually thought were cool when she was giving derby a chance. Both of them talked to my wife like she was an old friend from the neighborhood, making her feel safe. Vendetta’s husband was punk rock for life. Both of them, from Dallas, knew the punk rock scene intimately, and even took me for a tour of their old stomping grounds after a show in Dallas. Flat track provided a much needed outlet for Vendetta. The story goes that Vendetta actually made the three hour drive from Dallas several times a week to make practice in the early days of derby. A librarian by trade, Vendetta is very popular with the young kids she works with. She says the kids refer to her as “the librarian with two different color hair”, referring to her bleached blonde highlights streaking her black hair. Some of the funniest things said over the mike have been said by Vendetta. When thrown in the penalty box by refs during the Hot Rod/Dairyland bout, Jim Jones made the mistake of asking her a question in the box. She responded with one of the funniest lines I’ve ever heard, considering her trip to the box an award: “I’d like to thank all the bitches that made that penalty possible.” Vendetta von Dutch represents the rebellious soul that is flat track derby.
Cat Tastrophe - Gorgeous, spunky, and irritable, Cat Tastrophe has always been someone I’m careful when approaching. A Leo, she is very temperamental, and could sometimes be found coming to practices in tears. Despite her unpredictable temperament, she has established a legacy of determined efficiency and dependability for her team, the Hot Rod Honeys. Initially, Cat Tastrophe was a noted rival of Dinah Mite. Many even compared here skills and talents to the purple clad Hustler. In my opinion, no roller girl since the beginning has consistently been a test for Dinah as Cat has been. Watching her over the years, I have learned one thing: you cross the Cat, you pay dearly for it. You can almost see her writing her shit list as the game progresses, promising in her mind that the person that dared lay a hand on her or say a bad word to her is going to be punished for it. I once watched her cold cock then rookie Belle Starr with a right hook at the end of a period, flooring the rookie in surprised astonishment. Whether you agree with it or not, Cat Tastrophe is the Queen of any flat track she sets skate on. She will expect that respect from everyone who steps on it with her, and will literally destroy anyone who stands in her or her team’s way. You have been warned.
Rolletta Lynn - Rolletta Lynn is one of the first that I ever considered hardcore. Friendly and quirky, Rolletta was a serious competitor when it came to flat track. She was known to work closely with teammate Patsy Crime. I realized how serious the girls were one night when Rolletta was knocked to the ground near turn three. She hit the floor hard and had not even had the chance to shake off the pain when she was met with a skate right in her face. The skate hit her right in the mouth, and without missing a beat, she got to her feet to finish the jam. After getting checked by the medical staff, she returned to the game and finished. “She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore! She’s hardcore!” Rolletta currently lends her skills to the Queens of Pain of the Gotham Girls Rollerderby league in New York.
Voodoo Doll - Sexy is an understatement in reference to this tall drink of water. I don’t think it’s too bold to say that never has there been and never will there be a roller girls dripping with knowing sexuality as Voodoo Doll. In the early days, she was probably one of the original fan favorites, with whole websites devoted to her worship, literally. Virtual altars erected (no pun intended) in devotion to her. Apparently born and raised in the southernmost portions of Texas, Voodoo had a hard time in her youth being such a tall and stunningly beautiful young “guera”. She gained her toughness fighting groups of “cholas” jealous of her beauty. Stories abound of whole bars becoming silent when she entered and exited, with all eyes dumbfounded at her beauty. I found Voodoo Doll to be a very friendly and approachable lady. She had no problem with a person that was respectful to her and didn’t make a big deal about her looks. Recently, she gave birth to a baby with her husband, a noted Capoeria stylist. She has yet to return to the track.
The Crusher – In the mold of the legendary 8-Track, Thaaaaaaaaa Crusher was a menacing force on eight wheels. One of the few rollergirls to have Dinah Mite’s number on a consistent basis. Though she had a very bright future in derby, she was permanently sidelined by injuries. 8-Track - Probably the most dominant and skillful blocker in flat track history. She was honored with the title of “Dust Devil MVP” at the first Dust Devil. Mean as a junkyard dog on the track, she was a kind and loving person off the track. She held my baby girl Gwendolyn while her loser dad was taking pictures during a derby photo shoot. My baby fell asleep in her arms.
Muffin Tumble - Cute, compact, and combative, Muffin Tumble is a sultry assassin on wheels. Her development as a skater was consistent and rapid, and she is now one of the power players for the Hell Mary’s. Barbie Crash – There are rough players and there are mean players. And then there are dirty players. Barbie Crash’s audacious disregard for the rules of derby would make Rat City blush and say, “Hey, wait. That’s dirty.” I dubbed Barbie Crash “The Dirtiest Player in the Game” as, in my eyes, she flagrantly disregarded every rule in the book to gain an advantage. And she was good at it, too. She had a knack for knowing when refs weren’t looking to execute her diabolical strategies. She was always ready for a fight, too.
Sparkle Plenty – The now legendary Sparkle Plenty is a tall and very slender Boricua, though you would not know that fact due to her very fair complexion. I must admit, she set an example of the potential for rollergirls for me as the seasons progressed and proved to me that the sport is all inclusive when it comes to size and shape. I thought she would be knocked around the track like a rag doll in the early days, but watched as she would own other rollergirls with superior technical skill and a grace that is unique to her. Sparkle was responsible for the first set of rules of flat track, and many of the guidelines and set up were initiated by her. She is also an effective speaker and leader, having to wrangle the massive “personalities” of the announce team with superior wit, intellect, and an enigmatic use of timing in choosing her words. Buckshot Betsy – Gorgeous Honky jammer and flat track legend. Unique, but fit build, Buckshot became one of the faces of the Honky Tonk Heartbreakers in their three year dynasty before defecting to the Hell Mary’s. If you face a Texas All-Star team, you will have to compete against Buckshot.
Sedonya Face – From the planet LoveTron, Sedonya has been a permanent fixture for the Hustlers in her legendary career. An enforcer for the Hustlers, she is known to speak her mind in defense of her team whenever and to whoever.
Dottie Karate – Dottie Karate, or Karate Dottie in the proper Japanese sense, will forever be one of my favorites. We both shared an appreciation of Japanese culture that melded into my intro for her, announcing her name like the Japanese pro-wrestling announcers I listened to via bootleg videos. Kara-tay DAH-taaaaaaaaaaayyyy!!! Her gimmick helped me live out my dream of announcing wrestlers at the Tokyo Egg Dome in Japan. Every time.
Bettie Rage – Apart from the Rat City team, I don’t think there is a single rollergirl who has been met with utter contempt on the track then Bettie Rage, and I love it. Bettie is 100% more subtle than her former Honky Barbie Crash, but just as sinister. With skillful glee, she will take out jammers by any means necessary, and have no problem doing it. On the podcast for the Honky/Seattle DLF bout, after taking on a DLF member and failing in the attempt, I got her over as a take-out artist. In the background you can hear an angry rollergirl yell, “Betty Rage, you fuckin’ bitch”, before she groans and yells, “You Cheater”. When you can get a fan that enraged and engaged in the game, you’re doing something right. Strawberry – One of the legendary Hell Mary’s team players. Evident from the first day I laid eyes on her, Strawberry had the greatest hair in flat track, second to none. She is also notable for her flair for the dramatic when calling off a jam.
=====
More to come...
March 10, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - Chapter 3 - First Impressions and the first bout
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“It’s a madhouse! A madhouse!”- Charlton Heston, from the original “Planet of the Apes”
Chapter III: First Impressions and the first bout
The first bout with announcers was to take place within the week, and I had two practices to get familiar with the names of all the players as well as the game. I was still very nervous about being a part of the league, as the crowd was not necessarily a group I made any efforts to hang out with. Not that I was not willing to get to know everyone and understand where they were coming from, I was just wondering how receptive they were going to be to me. I pulled in early to the location that was to be the Mecca of flat track derby: Playland Skate Center. Taking out a pencil and paper, I walked to the front doors of the arena. Two ladies were standing by the doors. A little anxious, but hoping to make a good impression, I approached the duo. Both of them were short, one was just a little taller than me. They seemed formidable. “Hello, ladies.” “Hey, how’s it goin’?” The two came across as very amicable, though their massive collection of tattoos across their upper bodies intimidated me. “I’m Vendetta von Dutch.”
Vendetta von Dutch, my first favorite rollergirl “I’m Kitty Kitty Bang Bang,” said the other. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Bowie.” “You did really good at the audition.” “Yeah. I voted for you.” The compliments were not artificial, and it was very apparent that the ladies were sincere. I slowly began to feel at ease around them. If the other girls were like these two, then I think we were going to get along just fine. Eventually, someone came by and unlocked the doors. More and more girls slowly filed in. I was amazed at the variety of girls that stepped in. They were of all shapes and sizes and even all ages. One of the first things I was thinking about was whether or not the action was going to be a ‘work’ or not. A ‘work’ is a term traditionally used in professional wrestling, meaning that some event or action made out to be real is actually staged. The roller derby I remembered from the ‘80’s seemed like professional wrestling to me. To be honest, professional wrestling took itself very seriously in the early ‘80’s. Roller Derby at the time was very phony to me,
Kitty Kitty Bang Bang,
helped ease me into derby cultureeven from a mind that was willing to suspend belief. The feeble attempt to renew interest in roller derby in the early 90’s with RollerGames was pretty bad as well. I remember watching a guy grab another guy and give him a gut wrench suplex on the banked track. For some reason, it turned it into pro-wrestling, but without the excitement for it. I also remember some guy singing the theme song for the show and leading the crowd in a “Rock, Rock, Rockin’ and a’ RollerGames” sing along. That was a little too stupid, even for me. I found The Wrench, the contact that had been communicating with me about the necessities. She was an imposing figure, tall, stout, and to the point in her conversations. She was a busy women who was always doing something, but with a smile. I asked the questions I had. “Is this a work?” “A work?” “Is it staged?” “No. Believe it or not, we’re actually playing the game out there.” “Is it going to be on one of those banked tracks?” “No, we’re going to do it flat.” My first impression was that it was not going to have the flair of the banked track league. I was even afraid a flat track league would not catch on. I also received vague information about a rival league across town that had a banked track. I was curious, but tried to keep it to business. I had one more question. “Am I going to be paid.”
The Wrench “No.” It was a resounding no at that. I admit, I was a little disappointed, knowing that the possibility of being paid brought me to the audition. Don’t most announcers for a sport get compensated as being part of the announce crew? I slowly began to rationalize their reasoning. It’s a start up organization. It’s like performing in community theatre. Hell, I was getting a chance to be a sport announcer. I decided that it was best to overlook that small detail and prepare for my job on Sunday. The skaters started to warm up. No one was really encouraging me to do anything. Not necessarily because they were ignoring me, but there were so many other details they were taking care of. It was soon to become abundantly clear that we were going to be working on our own here. I decided to take the initiative. Watching the skaters in a warm up, I thought one particular warm up was a good chance to learn the names.
Hot Wheels The penalty Princess was a lady named Hot Wheels. She was a cute north eastern transplant to central Texas with an underbite and a keen sense of humor and conversational skill. I asked her if she would help me learn the names of the girls and she was more than happy to help. She led me over to the girls as they were skating from one side of the rink to the other. “That’s Trouble.” “Trouble.” I would look at them and repeat their names several times. It was important to get to know their faces and helmets as they would look totally different in their gimmicks. “Barbie Crash.” “Barbie Crash.” Some were friendly and would wave back. Others went about their business, which was fine. We both had jobs to do. “Strawberry.” “Strawberry.”
Barbie Crash “Bloody Mary.” “Bloddy Mary.” By the end of the first evening, thanks to Hot Wheels, I was pretty familiar with most of the girls. After the second meeting, I felt even better about it. I was on my way, and with the first bout with announcers just around the corner, I was very excited to get a chance to announce. But first, I had to get my gimmick name. Whiskey already had a name. Chip also had his. But what could mine be? I started simple, thinking about the position. Mike Stand? Justin Case? I then started thinking about a music star my fiancee Yedi the Leo liked: Enrique Iglesias. How could I play with that one? I wore glasses. Maybe Enrique E. Glasses.
Strawberry But, philosophically, I was an old schooler. I used to tell Yedi how much Enrique looked and sounded like his dad, Julio. I also remember my parents going to see Julio in San Antonio and how women were throwing their underwear on the stage for him. It seems like that was the name I was going to use: Julio E. Glasses. Whiskey came to me and asked what my gimmick name would be. “Well, Whiskey, I was thinking Julio E. Glasses.” She briskly replied, “How about another one?” I was surprised. Julio E. Glasses was pretty original. “Um. Mike Stand?” “I think you should be John Q. Public. Since you will be the voice of the public.” John Q. Public? It didn’t make sense and it wasn’t me. Here was an Aries in Whiskey, forcing her opinion on me. Just what I was afraid of. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to get to know each other. So someone suggested we take it to the girls. They were all stretching near the entrance to the venue while several of them took turns sharing news and information to the stretching roller girls. I must admit, some of the stretches were quite appealing. I had to be professional and avert my eyes. It was kind of like when guys go to the restroom in non-partitioned urinals. Its an unspoken law that while using a urinal, you keep your eye facing forward. My preference is to look to the ceiling. It was kind of one of those “look-to-the-ceiling” moments when the girls were stretching.
Bloody Mary, One of the TXRG Legends Anyway, so Whiskey jumps in and grabs their attention. I don’t think I had formally met more than ten girls at the time, so the moment would be interesting. She yelled out, “Hey girls, we’re coming up with Bowie’s name. Don’t ya’ll think John Q. Public would be a great name.” The reaction was interesting. I was reminded of the moment from “Animal House” in which Larry Kroeger’s face is shown on the slide projector. The response was similar, apart from the suggestion that I pay dues. However, I took the awkward moment to jump in with my idea. I projected, “I kind of liked Julio E. Glasses.” The response was stronger than the first, necessarily, and it was clear the girls liked Julio E. Glasses.” Whiskey feebly tried to suggest why John would be better, but the girls shot her down pretty quick. I was happy. I was to be Julio E. Glasses.
/ / / / / /
Whiskey L'Amour,
First Lady of FTRD Announcing The day of the first bout was interesting. I had to think of some kind of gimmick to go with my character. I really did not want to blow a bunch of money on my gimmick, but I wanted something professional that wasn’t too stuffy. I got the feeling that was the vibe of the group. So I decided to chose something that provided a cultural connection, something hip that expressed my Hispanic heritage. A guayabera. I had a closet full of guayaberas of all different colors that I could use. I put one on. The idea was good, but it was still very plain compared to what Whiskey, Chip, and Les probably had. I knew they would be ultra hip. I needed something else. Something to make it hip, and a little outlandish. My zarape. Believe it or not, I had taken to wearing this same zarape around town when I would go out drinking. This was before I met my wife. I was drawn to buy a zarape when I saw a picture of Mexican Revolutionary Pancho Villa stylin’ and profiling with a zarape in a picture I had bought. I thought it was ultra cool how he was wearing it. So I sought one out. I had also taken to wearing a black and white or brown and white poncho during the winter season. People, especially on Sixth street in Austin, really liked it. I would always get compliments on it. When I would enter into a bar, I would throw it over my shoulder like a zarape. I almost got into a fight over it one night.
I was on the plaza in San Marcos drinking with friends. The plaza, or square as it was called by the gringos of the town, was surrounded by bars. Most of these bars were attended by the college types. Several of them had an air of exclusivity to them, filled with “pretty people” as I liked to
Jim "Kool-Aid" Jones,
One of the greatest FTRD Announcers
Evercall them. On this night, I was sitting with friends at the plaza sports bar. A friend of mine, Edgar Arnall, had journeyed to one of the other bars. Dressed in an undone red flannel, an APA Protection shirt, wranglers, and my black poncho, I left the establishment to find Eddie. He said he was going to Rocky LaRue’s. It was a “pretty people” bar. I walked across the street towards the bar. I showed the doorman my ID and entered the bar. You know those movies where the guy walks into a party and the record skips and everybody stops and stares. Well, that’s exactly how I felt as I entered. It was not too big of a deal as I have always thought that people should be looking at me anyway (yeah, Aries). So I began to walk into the crowded bar, scanning the room for my friend. One guy came up to me and gave me a high five, telling me, “You’re cool, dude.” Was it in sarcasm? Perhaps. So I blew it off and continued walking. All eyes were on me as I moved forward through the bar. I watched one girl at a table I was approaching look at me, then turn to her friend to tell him something. As I approached their table, the guy looked at me. When I got closer to their table, he did the unthinkable. He knocked my poncho off my shoulder. Adrenaline began to course through my veins. Anger began to build in my heart. It somehow felt like the bullies of my youth making a fool out of me. I glared at him and slowly put the poncho back on my shoulder. I decided I should find Edgar first. And I tried to do that, but the anger that was building up in me had given me a kind of tunnel vision. The mind was listening to the anger rattling my body, and was preparing itself for whatever may come, focusing my attention on only what was important: kicking the shit out of that guy. At this point, it was useless trying to find Eddie. Let me make it known that I am far from a tough guy. The only fights I’ve ever been in was a fraternity toughman that went to a decision. They lined me up against some juiced up frat daddy as a patsy, and I took it to him. I had spent the past three months training for the fight in an effort to be ready, and I was. I remember approaching him as he was draped across a bench, patting him on the stomach and telling him it was a good fight. As a big fan of the martial arts, I have trained informally in amateur style freestyle and Greco-Roman wrestling, Jiu-Jitsu, and kickboxing, and formally in Capoeria, Krav Maga, and, of course, western boxing. The key there is “trained”. I have never mixed it up outside of the ring, and hope I would never have to. Anyway, so I walked back to the guy. Instinct told me the guy was drunk. Very drunk. His eyes were glazed and his posture was stereotypical. I approached the guy, taking advantage of the element of surprise. Still rational, I knew fighting would only get me in huge trouble. So my first thought was to take the beer out of his hand, take a drink, and walk away with it. But that was gross. I have never been a drink-sharer. It was a trait that my wife hated. But I didn’t want to get germs. Can you blame me? So I made a different choice. I took the beer out of his hand, poured it on his pants and shoes, and walked away with it. I walked outside of the bar, resonating with anger and rage. I was shaking, ready to fight. It was not to be. The guy or any of his friends did not pursue. And fortunately my friends were outside as well. I told Edgar the story. He was envious. A self-reputed tough guy, Edgar could not believe I had done that. I must be honest, I think at that point, the story became embellished by my friends. By the time it got to him, I think I had poured a beer on the guys head and walked out with his woman. And so came the idea for a zarape to be a part of my gimmick. When the first bout came around, the announce team was pretty much left to figure out things on their own. I was to be paired with my new broadcast partner, Whiskey L’Amour. Whiskey was actually a strikingly beautiful woman. The buxom Cajun beauty had long brown hair, devilish brown eyes, and full lips that highlighted her great smile. She was an Aries, like me, and I was curious how we were going to balance our unbalanced and outspoken natures on the microphones. It was going to be a challenge. I did, however, gain a lot of respect for her as I learned her story and how she ended up in the booth with me. For those that are unfamiliar with the story, an accident that occurred with Whiskey L’Amour was the spark that created the flat track derby revolution. I had no idea about the story, and started to piece together the mystery that every girl in the league seemed to know, but had a bitter energy that compelled them to stray away from discussing it. I eventually pieced together my understanding of the event, and got the full story from Melissa “Melicious” Joulwan’s book“Rollergirl: Totally True Tales from the Track”. If you have not purchased that book yet, you are not a true derby fan. Yeah, I said it. Here’s how I understood it: The leaders of the bank track league were on the take, calling themselves “She-E-O’s”. They were more interested in making money off of the girls and not taking care of the more important aspects of their money making: taking care of the people making the money. They went into an exhibition game with their charges uninsured, and Whiskey L’Amour blew out both her ankles. The issue of insurance, or the lack thereof, came to light that night. All the girls realized they were playing a very dangerous game without the benefit of coverage in case of injury. Fortunately, Whiskey was covered by her work insurance. It was this revelation, however, that incited the mass exodus from the banked track league and the creation of the Texas Rollergirls.
/ / / / / /
With all the activity going on before the first bout, Whiskey and I talked briefly before we got to work. I mentioned my marriage plans and my engagement. She asked me Yedi’s sign. I told her she was a Leo. Whiskey promptly made a face and provided glib insight, something that was to be a Whiskey L’Amour hallmark, by saying words to the effect of, “Leo’s and Aries don’t mix. Run.” The Master of Ceremonies was the choice I assumed had been made: Les McGehee. He dubbed himself “Motormouth”, and it was a pleasure to work with him again. As the man with the most experience between all of us, he took the initiative to make great suggestions about how our announcing should run. He initially came up with the idea that the announcers should call during the game, and in between whistles, he could shill for sponsors and crack jokes. Les was legitimately hilarious, thinking up extremely witty comments on the fly. Giving Les time in between the whistlers was the best thing for us at the time, as Whiskey and I were still trying to figure out what we were doing. I was surprised to find a fourth addition to the organization. Apparently, a new position had been created, or perhaps, I was unaware of. I remember only being three positions open during the audition. But this position was Crowd Wrangler, and it went to none other than Chip Queso. I was surprised to see him, but could tell he could be a good addition to the group. Chip was enthusiastic and ready to help. Though the girls made the decision to add the position and bring him in, I couldn’t help but think they threw him a bone. One of our first conversations revolved around the fact that I was totally unaware of the banked track league, the split, and any of the girls. It was funny, at the time, to also find out his sign: Leo. DJ JJ was getting the turntables ready. I thought he was really cool. Months later, I wasn’t so sure.
/ / / / / / The first few bouts are a blur, and I remember many general things from the first few seasons and bouts. Whiskey talked a lot. Granted, that was her job, but Jesus H. Christ, she would not shut up. I remember being very frustrated at the beginning about that. We stepped on each others toes a lot, announcing wise, in those early days. I resigned myself to letting her speak as much as she wanted, as I was getting headaches from speaking too loud. I recall one bout, sitting in frustration, almost wanting to quit. Whiskey would not share, did not know how to keep comments short, and thought she had to call every single moment that was going on. It was frustrating, but I had patience. We eventually, through our experiences, began to have a more balanced announcing style and things began to work out better. I remember the league lost Les in the second season. I was really sad about that because he was very funny and a very valuable, almost patriarchal, resource for the announcers. I knew Les was a professional performer. Though I never knew for sure, I get the feeling he chose to pass the role on to someone else for lack of pay. His book also hinted that my conclusion was correct. In his book he mentions that to for performers to be happy in life, you find something you love, you find someone who needs that service, then you get paid for it. We were all sad to see him go. A “come back, Les” e-mail campaign ensued from our announce team that was answered with silence from his end. Les did, however, name a successor: John Porter. John was another member of the successful Austin ComedySportz team, and another member I remember being very funny when my San Antonio team joined his Austin team to play. I knew he would be a good fit. He joined us at a practice before the bout to come up with his gimmick name. It was around this time the girls had an idea to have a theme for the bouts. The idea of a Sunday tent revival type-theme was picked. We were a little confused, thinking they wanted us to change our gimmicks. At any rate, the ideas for a gimmick change were already in my head for my character. I was thinking I could be a religious cult leader: David Carash (a play on David Koresh of Waco Branch Davidian fame) or Jim “Kool-Aid” Jones. I figured I could go out and rant and rave to the crowds before the bout about the grand scheme and how flat track was related to it. At any rate, I threw out the idea of Jim Jones to John. He smirked that John Porter smirk before he started to laugh. He said the name a few times and it stuck. John Porter was to become Jim “Kool Aid” Jones. I remember Whiskey suggesting there should be announcer try outs before the next season started. She was extremely drunk at the after party when she brought it up, and I thought it might be the alcohol talking. Why would she want that? What was wrong with us? Perhaps she was unhappy for the same reasons I was, thinking I was a “mic hog”. I let it go, knowing that we were doing a good job together. However, it was still a comment that stuck with me for the following years, and it was not until the 2007 season that I began to trust her and realize she did have confidence in my work. This distrust of Whiskey actually led me to encourage Chip during the early bouts when Whiskey was away on work related business. I remember Chip doing pretty good, telling me words to the effect of, “Man, I don’t know how ya’ll do it. It’s pretty hard to keep up.” I remember him doing alright when we worked together. Because it was a volunteer position at the time, the announcers were encouraged to be able to perform the duties of their collegues in case of their absence from a bout. Typically, it meant only Whiskey, as Chip, Kool-Aid, and I were there every bout without fail. Roles were taking a new form, and everyone was gaining a more active role at the time. I felt there were definitive roles as set down by Les in the first season. But the roles were beginning to change unchecked, shifting in a direction I believe they were not intended for. I chose to let it go, realizing the informal nature of our announcing and the league itself, at the time. This evolution was not the way I felt the announce team should be moving toward. It was bad for the announce team, but at the time, I felt I had no say in it. The only people at this point who had any say in the direction were the ‘girls. When I look back, I think it was these recommendations from production and the time Whiskey spent away that planted seeds for strife that would rear its head in the future of the announce team.
But before I get to the drama, no discussion about the birth, growth, and evolution of the roller girls would not be complete without a discussion of the Rollergirls themselves.
===========
More to come... stay tuned...
Network with me at ZBFbooks.com.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“It’s a madhouse! A madhouse!”- Charlton Heston, from the original “Planet of the Apes”
Chapter III: First Impressions and the first bout
The first bout with announcers was to take place within the week, and I had two practices to get familiar with the names of all the players as well as the game. I was still very nervous about being a part of the league, as the crowd was not necessarily a group I made any efforts to hang out with. Not that I was not willing to get to know everyone and understand where they were coming from, I was just wondering how receptive they were going to be to me. I pulled in early to the location that was to be the Mecca of flat track derby: Playland Skate Center. Taking out a pencil and paper, I walked to the front doors of the arena. Two ladies were standing by the doors. A little anxious, but hoping to make a good impression, I approached the duo. Both of them were short, one was just a little taller than me. They seemed formidable. “Hello, ladies.” “Hey, how’s it goin’?” The two came across as very amicable, though their massive collection of tattoos across their upper bodies intimidated me. “I’m Vendetta von Dutch.”
Vendetta von Dutch, my first favorite rollergirl “I’m Kitty Kitty Bang Bang,” said the other. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Bowie.” “You did really good at the audition.” “Yeah. I voted for you.” The compliments were not artificial, and it was very apparent that the ladies were sincere. I slowly began to feel at ease around them. If the other girls were like these two, then I think we were going to get along just fine. Eventually, someone came by and unlocked the doors. More and more girls slowly filed in. I was amazed at the variety of girls that stepped in. They were of all shapes and sizes and even all ages. One of the first things I was thinking about was whether or not the action was going to be a ‘work’ or not. A ‘work’ is a term traditionally used in professional wrestling, meaning that some event or action made out to be real is actually staged. The roller derby I remembered from the ‘80’s seemed like professional wrestling to me. To be honest, professional wrestling took itself very seriously in the early ‘80’s. Roller Derby at the time was very phony to me,
Kitty Kitty Bang Bang,helped ease me into derby cultureeven from a mind that was willing to suspend belief. The feeble attempt to renew interest in roller derby in the early 90’s with RollerGames was pretty bad as well. I remember watching a guy grab another guy and give him a gut wrench suplex on the banked track. For some reason, it turned it into pro-wrestling, but without the excitement for it. I also remember some guy singing the theme song for the show and leading the crowd in a “Rock, Rock, Rockin’ and a’ RollerGames” sing along. That was a little too stupid, even for me. I found The Wrench, the contact that had been communicating with me about the necessities. She was an imposing figure, tall, stout, and to the point in her conversations. She was a busy women who was always doing something, but with a smile. I asked the questions I had. “Is this a work?” “A work?” “Is it staged?” “No. Believe it or not, we’re actually playing the game out there.” “Is it going to be on one of those banked tracks?” “No, we’re going to do it flat.” My first impression was that it was not going to have the flair of the banked track league. I was even afraid a flat track league would not catch on. I also received vague information about a rival league across town that had a banked track. I was curious, but tried to keep it to business. I had one more question. “Am I going to be paid.”
The Wrench “No.” It was a resounding no at that. I admit, I was a little disappointed, knowing that the possibility of being paid brought me to the audition. Don’t most announcers for a sport get compensated as being part of the announce crew? I slowly began to rationalize their reasoning. It’s a start up organization. It’s like performing in community theatre. Hell, I was getting a chance to be a sport announcer. I decided that it was best to overlook that small detail and prepare for my job on Sunday. The skaters started to warm up. No one was really encouraging me to do anything. Not necessarily because they were ignoring me, but there were so many other details they were taking care of. It was soon to become abundantly clear that we were going to be working on our own here. I decided to take the initiative. Watching the skaters in a warm up, I thought one particular warm up was a good chance to learn the names.
Hot Wheels The penalty Princess was a lady named Hot Wheels. She was a cute north eastern transplant to central Texas with an underbite and a keen sense of humor and conversational skill. I asked her if she would help me learn the names of the girls and she was more than happy to help. She led me over to the girls as they were skating from one side of the rink to the other. “That’s Trouble.” “Trouble.” I would look at them and repeat their names several times. It was important to get to know their faces and helmets as they would look totally different in their gimmicks. “Barbie Crash.” “Barbie Crash.” Some were friendly and would wave back. Others went about their business, which was fine. We both had jobs to do. “Strawberry.” “Strawberry.”
Barbie Crash “Bloody Mary.” “Bloddy Mary.” By the end of the first evening, thanks to Hot Wheels, I was pretty familiar with most of the girls. After the second meeting, I felt even better about it. I was on my way, and with the first bout with announcers just around the corner, I was very excited to get a chance to announce. But first, I had to get my gimmick name. Whiskey already had a name. Chip also had his. But what could mine be? I started simple, thinking about the position. Mike Stand? Justin Case? I then started thinking about a music star my fiancee Yedi the Leo liked: Enrique Iglesias. How could I play with that one? I wore glasses. Maybe Enrique E. Glasses.
Strawberry But, philosophically, I was an old schooler. I used to tell Yedi how much Enrique looked and sounded like his dad, Julio. I also remember my parents going to see Julio in San Antonio and how women were throwing their underwear on the stage for him. It seems like that was the name I was going to use: Julio E. Glasses. Whiskey came to me and asked what my gimmick name would be. “Well, Whiskey, I was thinking Julio E. Glasses.” She briskly replied, “How about another one?” I was surprised. Julio E. Glasses was pretty original. “Um. Mike Stand?” “I think you should be John Q. Public. Since you will be the voice of the public.” John Q. Public? It didn’t make sense and it wasn’t me. Here was an Aries in Whiskey, forcing her opinion on me. Just what I was afraid of. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to get to know each other. So someone suggested we take it to the girls. They were all stretching near the entrance to the venue while several of them took turns sharing news and information to the stretching roller girls. I must admit, some of the stretches were quite appealing. I had to be professional and avert my eyes. It was kind of like when guys go to the restroom in non-partitioned urinals. Its an unspoken law that while using a urinal, you keep your eye facing forward. My preference is to look to the ceiling. It was kind of one of those “look-to-the-ceiling” moments when the girls were stretching.
Bloody Mary, One of the TXRG Legends Anyway, so Whiskey jumps in and grabs their attention. I don’t think I had formally met more than ten girls at the time, so the moment would be interesting. She yelled out, “Hey girls, we’re coming up with Bowie’s name. Don’t ya’ll think John Q. Public would be a great name.” The reaction was interesting. I was reminded of the moment from “Animal House” in which Larry Kroeger’s face is shown on the slide projector. The response was similar, apart from the suggestion that I pay dues. However, I took the awkward moment to jump in with my idea. I projected, “I kind of liked Julio E. Glasses.” The response was stronger than the first, necessarily, and it was clear the girls liked Julio E. Glasses.” Whiskey feebly tried to suggest why John would be better, but the girls shot her down pretty quick. I was happy. I was to be Julio E. Glasses./ / / / / /
Whiskey L'Amour,First Lady of FTRD Announcing The day of the first bout was interesting. I had to think of some kind of gimmick to go with my character. I really did not want to blow a bunch of money on my gimmick, but I wanted something professional that wasn’t too stuffy. I got the feeling that was the vibe of the group. So I decided to chose something that provided a cultural connection, something hip that expressed my Hispanic heritage. A guayabera. I had a closet full of guayaberas of all different colors that I could use. I put one on. The idea was good, but it was still very plain compared to what Whiskey, Chip, and Les probably had. I knew they would be ultra hip. I needed something else. Something to make it hip, and a little outlandish. My zarape. Believe it or not, I had taken to wearing this same zarape around town when I would go out drinking. This was before I met my wife. I was drawn to buy a zarape when I saw a picture of Mexican Revolutionary Pancho Villa stylin’ and profiling with a zarape in a picture I had bought. I thought it was ultra cool how he was wearing it. So I sought one out. I had also taken to wearing a black and white or brown and white poncho during the winter season. People, especially on Sixth street in Austin, really liked it. I would always get compliments on it. When I would enter into a bar, I would throw it over my shoulder like a zarape. I almost got into a fight over it one night.
I was on the plaza in San Marcos drinking with friends. The plaza, or square as it was called by the gringos of the town, was surrounded by bars. Most of these bars were attended by the college types. Several of them had an air of exclusivity to them, filled with “pretty people” as I liked to
Jim "Kool-Aid" Jones,One of the greatest FTRD Announcers
Evercall them. On this night, I was sitting with friends at the plaza sports bar. A friend of mine, Edgar Arnall, had journeyed to one of the other bars. Dressed in an undone red flannel, an APA Protection shirt, wranglers, and my black poncho, I left the establishment to find Eddie. He said he was going to Rocky LaRue’s. It was a “pretty people” bar. I walked across the street towards the bar. I showed the doorman my ID and entered the bar. You know those movies where the guy walks into a party and the record skips and everybody stops and stares. Well, that’s exactly how I felt as I entered. It was not too big of a deal as I have always thought that people should be looking at me anyway (yeah, Aries). So I began to walk into the crowded bar, scanning the room for my friend. One guy came up to me and gave me a high five, telling me, “You’re cool, dude.” Was it in sarcasm? Perhaps. So I blew it off and continued walking. All eyes were on me as I moved forward through the bar. I watched one girl at a table I was approaching look at me, then turn to her friend to tell him something. As I approached their table, the guy looked at me. When I got closer to their table, he did the unthinkable. He knocked my poncho off my shoulder. Adrenaline began to course through my veins. Anger began to build in my heart. It somehow felt like the bullies of my youth making a fool out of me. I glared at him and slowly put the poncho back on my shoulder. I decided I should find Edgar first. And I tried to do that, but the anger that was building up in me had given me a kind of tunnel vision. The mind was listening to the anger rattling my body, and was preparing itself for whatever may come, focusing my attention on only what was important: kicking the shit out of that guy. At this point, it was useless trying to find Eddie. Let me make it known that I am far from a tough guy. The only fights I’ve ever been in was a fraternity toughman that went to a decision. They lined me up against some juiced up frat daddy as a patsy, and I took it to him. I had spent the past three months training for the fight in an effort to be ready, and I was. I remember approaching him as he was draped across a bench, patting him on the stomach and telling him it was a good fight. As a big fan of the martial arts, I have trained informally in amateur style freestyle and Greco-Roman wrestling, Jiu-Jitsu, and kickboxing, and formally in Capoeria, Krav Maga, and, of course, western boxing. The key there is “trained”. I have never mixed it up outside of the ring, and hope I would never have to. Anyway, so I walked back to the guy. Instinct told me the guy was drunk. Very drunk. His eyes were glazed and his posture was stereotypical. I approached the guy, taking advantage of the element of surprise. Still rational, I knew fighting would only get me in huge trouble. So my first thought was to take the beer out of his hand, take a drink, and walk away with it. But that was gross. I have never been a drink-sharer. It was a trait that my wife hated. But I didn’t want to get germs. Can you blame me? So I made a different choice. I took the beer out of his hand, poured it on his pants and shoes, and walked away with it. I walked outside of the bar, resonating with anger and rage. I was shaking, ready to fight. It was not to be. The guy or any of his friends did not pursue. And fortunately my friends were outside as well. I told Edgar the story. He was envious. A self-reputed tough guy, Edgar could not believe I had done that. I must be honest, I think at that point, the story became embellished by my friends. By the time it got to him, I think I had poured a beer on the guys head and walked out with his woman. And so came the idea for a zarape to be a part of my gimmick. When the first bout came around, the announce team was pretty much left to figure out things on their own. I was to be paired with my new broadcast partner, Whiskey L’Amour. Whiskey was actually a strikingly beautiful woman. The buxom Cajun beauty had long brown hair, devilish brown eyes, and full lips that highlighted her great smile. She was an Aries, like me, and I was curious how we were going to balance our unbalanced and outspoken natures on the microphones. It was going to be a challenge. I did, however, gain a lot of respect for her as I learned her story and how she ended up in the booth with me. For those that are unfamiliar with the story, an accident that occurred with Whiskey L’Amour was the spark that created the flat track derby revolution. I had no idea about the story, and started to piece together the mystery that every girl in the league seemed to know, but had a bitter energy that compelled them to stray away from discussing it. I eventually pieced together my understanding of the event, and got the full story from Melissa “Melicious” Joulwan’s book“Rollergirl: Totally True Tales from the Track”. If you have not purchased that book yet, you are not a true derby fan. Yeah, I said it. Here’s how I understood it: The leaders of the bank track league were on the take, calling themselves “She-E-O’s”. They were more interested in making money off of the girls and not taking care of the more important aspects of their money making: taking care of the people making the money. They went into an exhibition game with their charges uninsured, and Whiskey L’Amour blew out both her ankles. The issue of insurance, or the lack thereof, came to light that night. All the girls realized they were playing a very dangerous game without the benefit of coverage in case of injury. Fortunately, Whiskey was covered by her work insurance. It was this revelation, however, that incited the mass exodus from the banked track league and the creation of the Texas Rollergirls.
/ / / / / /
With all the activity going on before the first bout, Whiskey and I talked briefly before we got to work. I mentioned my marriage plans and my engagement. She asked me Yedi’s sign. I told her she was a Leo. Whiskey promptly made a face and provided glib insight, something that was to be a Whiskey L’Amour hallmark, by saying words to the effect of, “Leo’s and Aries don’t mix. Run.” The Master of Ceremonies was the choice I assumed had been made: Les McGehee. He dubbed himself “Motormouth”, and it was a pleasure to work with him again. As the man with the most experience between all of us, he took the initiative to make great suggestions about how our announcing should run. He initially came up with the idea that the announcers should call during the game, and in between whistles, he could shill for sponsors and crack jokes. Les was legitimately hilarious, thinking up extremely witty comments on the fly. Giving Les time in between the whistlers was the best thing for us at the time, as Whiskey and I were still trying to figure out what we were doing. I was surprised to find a fourth addition to the organization. Apparently, a new position had been created, or perhaps, I was unaware of. I remember only being three positions open during the audition. But this position was Crowd Wrangler, and it went to none other than Chip Queso. I was surprised to see him, but could tell he could be a good addition to the group. Chip was enthusiastic and ready to help. Though the girls made the decision to add the position and bring him in, I couldn’t help but think they threw him a bone. One of our first conversations revolved around the fact that I was totally unaware of the banked track league, the split, and any of the girls. It was funny, at the time, to also find out his sign: Leo. DJ JJ was getting the turntables ready. I thought he was really cool. Months later, I wasn’t so sure.
/ / / / / / The first few bouts are a blur, and I remember many general things from the first few seasons and bouts. Whiskey talked a lot. Granted, that was her job, but Jesus H. Christ, she would not shut up. I remember being very frustrated at the beginning about that. We stepped on each others toes a lot, announcing wise, in those early days. I resigned myself to letting her speak as much as she wanted, as I was getting headaches from speaking too loud. I recall one bout, sitting in frustration, almost wanting to quit. Whiskey would not share, did not know how to keep comments short, and thought she had to call every single moment that was going on. It was frustrating, but I had patience. We eventually, through our experiences, began to have a more balanced announcing style and things began to work out better. I remember the league lost Les in the second season. I was really sad about that because he was very funny and a very valuable, almost patriarchal, resource for the announcers. I knew Les was a professional performer. Though I never knew for sure, I get the feeling he chose to pass the role on to someone else for lack of pay. His book also hinted that my conclusion was correct. In his book he mentions that to for performers to be happy in life, you find something you love, you find someone who needs that service, then you get paid for it. We were all sad to see him go. A “come back, Les” e-mail campaign ensued from our announce team that was answered with silence from his end. Les did, however, name a successor: John Porter. John was another member of the successful Austin ComedySportz team, and another member I remember being very funny when my San Antonio team joined his Austin team to play. I knew he would be a good fit. He joined us at a practice before the bout to come up with his gimmick name. It was around this time the girls had an idea to have a theme for the bouts. The idea of a Sunday tent revival type-theme was picked. We were a little confused, thinking they wanted us to change our gimmicks. At any rate, the ideas for a gimmick change were already in my head for my character. I was thinking I could be a religious cult leader: David Carash (a play on David Koresh of Waco Branch Davidian fame) or Jim “Kool-Aid” Jones. I figured I could go out and rant and rave to the crowds before the bout about the grand scheme and how flat track was related to it. At any rate, I threw out the idea of Jim Jones to John. He smirked that John Porter smirk before he started to laugh. He said the name a few times and it stuck. John Porter was to become Jim “Kool Aid” Jones. I remember Whiskey suggesting there should be announcer try outs before the next season started. She was extremely drunk at the after party when she brought it up, and I thought it might be the alcohol talking. Why would she want that? What was wrong with us? Perhaps she was unhappy for the same reasons I was, thinking I was a “mic hog”. I let it go, knowing that we were doing a good job together. However, it was still a comment that stuck with me for the following years, and it was not until the 2007 season that I began to trust her and realize she did have confidence in my work. This distrust of Whiskey actually led me to encourage Chip during the early bouts when Whiskey was away on work related business. I remember Chip doing pretty good, telling me words to the effect of, “Man, I don’t know how ya’ll do it. It’s pretty hard to keep up.” I remember him doing alright when we worked together. Because it was a volunteer position at the time, the announcers were encouraged to be able to perform the duties of their collegues in case of their absence from a bout. Typically, it meant only Whiskey, as Chip, Kool-Aid, and I were there every bout without fail. Roles were taking a new form, and everyone was gaining a more active role at the time. I felt there were definitive roles as set down by Les in the first season. But the roles were beginning to change unchecked, shifting in a direction I believe they were not intended for. I chose to let it go, realizing the informal nature of our announcing and the league itself, at the time. This evolution was not the way I felt the announce team should be moving toward. It was bad for the announce team, but at the time, I felt I had no say in it. The only people at this point who had any say in the direction were the ‘girls. When I look back, I think it was these recommendations from production and the time Whiskey spent away that planted seeds for strife that would rear its head in the future of the announce team.
But before I get to the drama, no discussion about the birth, growth, and evolution of the roller girls would not be complete without a discussion of the Rollergirls themselves.
===========
More to come... stay tuned...
Network with me at ZBFbooks.com.
March 9, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - CHAPTER 2 - The Audition
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Yippee-Kay-Ay, mother fucker.”- Bruce Willis, “Die Hard
Chapter II: The audition
It was a simple process to audition to be a part of the announce crew of the Texas Rollergirls. Three roles were up for grabs: Master of Ceremony, Play by Play, and Color Commentary. Deciding I was totally in the dark about the rules of roller derby, I thought Master of Ceremony was going to be the best role for me. The requirements of Master of Ceremony was to create a unique introduction for several players. The players had hilarious names. Anna Mosity. Misty Meaner. Tinkerhell. Vendetta von Dutch. As much as I wanted to play with many names, I was required to pick only three. I did make more, though, in case they needed them. It was always good to be prepared for an audition, especially when the process of the audition was unknown. I remember my most favorite of the lines I created. It was for Tinkerhell: “From the bad side of Never Neverland, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Tinkerheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell!” Dressing up in my best business suit, a two-buttoned navy blue suit with a red power tie, I drove my vehicle to the once free 6thStreet parking lot under the IH-35 overpass. I was a bit nervous, but excited at the opportunity. The address for the audition was Beerland, a place off of 7th street. The journey up the street was a bit of an adventure in itself. To get to Beerland, you had to travel up 7th street near the Austin Police Station. Ironically enough, the same street was the place many people went for their drugs. Homeless people littered the sidewalk, and their glaring stares at the Hispanic in a blue business suit made me wonder just exactly when I was going to get mugged. Fortunately for me, the lack of eye contact, brisk walk, and fading daylight prevented any pickpockets from messing with the “’fraidy Cat” in the blue business suit as I turned the corner. Somehow the urine stench of the building housing Beerland made me wonder if I was overdressed. I never thought it was possible, but the building progressively became older, danker, even in the sunlight. A large black sign with “Beerland” written in white and a font similar to a distinct beer label hung on the wall like the beacon of an antiquated salon. All the place needed was swinging bar doors and cowboys ready to shoot the “sissy” likein The Three Amigos. The crowd also changed. Somehow cleaner than the bums I passed to get there, yet just as edgy. I was getting a little nervous I was looking like to much of a stiff for this crowd. Fortunately for me, waiting at the door was a familiar face. He greeted me with a smile and hearty handshake. His name was Les McGehee. Les McGehee was a man I met during my college days while performing with ComedySportz. He was the literal and spiritual leader of the Austin ComedySportz team. Though I only performed against the Austin team on special occasions, Les is one of the few people who consistently hit it out of the park every time. I make no exaggeration with that statement. Les was like a comedy alchemist, turning turds into comedy gold. He would go on to write a book about improvisation and life entitled “Plays Well with Others”, a veritable Bible of improvisational pearls and advice. “Bowie Ibarra. How the heck are you?” “Les, holy crap! I’m fantastic now!” “What are you here to try out for?” “I think Master of Ceremony.” “Well, I think they have someone in mind for that right now. You should probably be a good play-by-play.” The subtext was clear. Les was pretty much a shoe-in for the Master of Ceremony role. Now I was even more nervous. I did not know a thing about the game. How could I call play-by-play. Granted, I would love that role in professionalwrestling, but I knew the rules of professional wrestling. I tried to relax, relying on my improvisation skills to get me through. After Les talked with me briefly about his life and mine, I found a seat. I felt like a fish out of water among a bunch of punk rockers. I knew for a fact I was going to get my ass kicked. Though I’ve always been able to be a social chameleon, able to meld in different groups, I had never been around legitimate punk rockers and the ilk. Their reputation as toughs and rounders had preceeded them, and I felt as if I need to proceed with caution in this foreign land of beer. The place was a beer soaked, dirty, and smoke filled box. Some of the finest cheap beers were on sale at the bar. I was pleasantly surprised to find Pearl on sale. I purchased one and took a seat. The crowd was raucous, but one particular girl was especially vociferous. She was yelling obscenities and other insults out loud. It was a fair assumption that she was drunk. She was cute and quite humorous and was dressed up for a ball. Her yelling was a bit annoying, but it was funny. She was eliciting laughs from everyone in the room despite her boisterous voice. She must have been a roller girl. On a large projection screen above a small stage where bands usually play, clips from derby bouts were playing in rotation. I remember one camera angle the cameraman took from the floor, pretty much shooting up the dresses of the jammers as they were about to jam. One of the skaters was wearing thigh highs with pretty pink bows just below her ass cheek. “Oh, my goodness,” I thought. “What the hell have I gotten into, a burlesque show?” I opted, naturally, to keep my disposition as professional as possible. I seem to remember the auditions starting with the DJ. I also seem to remember only one showed up. His name was J.J. and he sat behind the turntables like a pro, spinning punk rock and other obscure rock tunes, at least to my limited punk rock knowledge. He was the epitome of cool, switching from song to song while puffing on a cigarette, like some kind of musical satyr spinning tunes for a forest party of wild animals. It was then time for the people to try out for Master of Ceremony. I stood on the stage, looking out at the wild looking people and stern faces. I was very nervous, but executed my performance with all the poise I could muster. I was happy hear some of my jokes go over. I thought I did pretty good. I watched one man go up for the part. All he did was yell. I was no professional at the time, but I didn’t think that was going to work. Another guy went up. He was enthusiastic, but didn’t come across to me as anything special. He had the energy, but seemed to lack charisma. His gimmick name was funny, though: Chip Queso. It was time for the announcers to try out. The loud girl in the back made her way to the stage. She was very pretty, but still seemed very drunk. Her name was Whiskey L’Amour, and she knew what the game was all about. She did very good, even though I had no idea what she was saying in regards to derby jargon. I was then asked by someone, perhaps The Wrench, to go ahead and try out for announcer. I thought either Les had pulled some strings for me to try this role, or perhaps they thought I did good on the M.C. bit. Like in all auditions, the answer is always “yes”, even if it should be no. They put me on the stage with Whiskey L’Amour. I had to be professional. It was like improvisation, you had to share and work off of your partner. But my partner was a real motor mouth. She would not stop talking. I had to choose my words wisely when there was a break in the action. She was good, but did not seem to have the sense of sharing that announcers needed. I provided some very brief insight when I could, making sure to do what I thought was the number one job of an announcer: put the product over. In this case, get the rollergirls over for everything. Watching the clips, it was very obvious it was a sport. The athletic ability was apparent, and I made sure to illuminate that point every chance. “The skill and athleticism is outstanding.” “What tremendous balance these girls have.” “The athleticism is amazing” After a very short clip, they asked me and Whiskey to stay up again for a longer one. When I got down from my audition, I felt really good. I knew I was one of the better ones in the room, and I felt one of the three roles could be mine. As I sat down, there was a giant puddle of fluid in the chair. Somehow, some mystery liquid had been poured on the seat of my chair. I immediately assumed someone was trying to pick a fight with me. I was actually very upset. This was one of my good suits and it came across to me like someone was messing around with me. I turned around and glared at no one in particular. No one seemed suspicious enough for me to lay blame on. Perhaps it was an accident. Though I almost remained seated in the chair out of embarrassment, I moved to another chair using common sense. When I had moved, Chip Queso approached me. “Hey, man. You did really good up there.” “Thanks.”
/ / / / / /
The very next day, I received an e-mail from The Wrench.
I had earned one of the three spots as color commentator for the Texas Rollergirls.
=====
More to come... stay tuned...
ZBFbooks.com
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Yippee-Kay-Ay, mother fucker.”- Bruce Willis, “Die Hard
Chapter II: The audition
It was a simple process to audition to be a part of the announce crew of the Texas Rollergirls. Three roles were up for grabs: Master of Ceremony, Play by Play, and Color Commentary. Deciding I was totally in the dark about the rules of roller derby, I thought Master of Ceremony was going to be the best role for me. The requirements of Master of Ceremony was to create a unique introduction for several players. The players had hilarious names. Anna Mosity. Misty Meaner. Tinkerhell. Vendetta von Dutch. As much as I wanted to play with many names, I was required to pick only three. I did make more, though, in case they needed them. It was always good to be prepared for an audition, especially when the process of the audition was unknown. I remember my most favorite of the lines I created. It was for Tinkerhell: “From the bad side of Never Neverland, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Tinkerheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell!” Dressing up in my best business suit, a two-buttoned navy blue suit with a red power tie, I drove my vehicle to the once free 6thStreet parking lot under the IH-35 overpass. I was a bit nervous, but excited at the opportunity. The address for the audition was Beerland, a place off of 7th street. The journey up the street was a bit of an adventure in itself. To get to Beerland, you had to travel up 7th street near the Austin Police Station. Ironically enough, the same street was the place many people went for their drugs. Homeless people littered the sidewalk, and their glaring stares at the Hispanic in a blue business suit made me wonder just exactly when I was going to get mugged. Fortunately for me, the lack of eye contact, brisk walk, and fading daylight prevented any pickpockets from messing with the “’fraidy Cat” in the blue business suit as I turned the corner. Somehow the urine stench of the building housing Beerland made me wonder if I was overdressed. I never thought it was possible, but the building progressively became older, danker, even in the sunlight. A large black sign with “Beerland” written in white and a font similar to a distinct beer label hung on the wall like the beacon of an antiquated salon. All the place needed was swinging bar doors and cowboys ready to shoot the “sissy” likein The Three Amigos. The crowd also changed. Somehow cleaner than the bums I passed to get there, yet just as edgy. I was getting a little nervous I was looking like to much of a stiff for this crowd. Fortunately for me, waiting at the door was a familiar face. He greeted me with a smile and hearty handshake. His name was Les McGehee. Les McGehee was a man I met during my college days while performing with ComedySportz. He was the literal and spiritual leader of the Austin ComedySportz team. Though I only performed against the Austin team on special occasions, Les is one of the few people who consistently hit it out of the park every time. I make no exaggeration with that statement. Les was like a comedy alchemist, turning turds into comedy gold. He would go on to write a book about improvisation and life entitled “Plays Well with Others”, a veritable Bible of improvisational pearls and advice. “Bowie Ibarra. How the heck are you?” “Les, holy crap! I’m fantastic now!” “What are you here to try out for?” “I think Master of Ceremony.” “Well, I think they have someone in mind for that right now. You should probably be a good play-by-play.” The subtext was clear. Les was pretty much a shoe-in for the Master of Ceremony role. Now I was even more nervous. I did not know a thing about the game. How could I call play-by-play. Granted, I would love that role in professionalwrestling, but I knew the rules of professional wrestling. I tried to relax, relying on my improvisation skills to get me through. After Les talked with me briefly about his life and mine, I found a seat. I felt like a fish out of water among a bunch of punk rockers. I knew for a fact I was going to get my ass kicked. Though I’ve always been able to be a social chameleon, able to meld in different groups, I had never been around legitimate punk rockers and the ilk. Their reputation as toughs and rounders had preceeded them, and I felt as if I need to proceed with caution in this foreign land of beer. The place was a beer soaked, dirty, and smoke filled box. Some of the finest cheap beers were on sale at the bar. I was pleasantly surprised to find Pearl on sale. I purchased one and took a seat. The crowd was raucous, but one particular girl was especially vociferous. She was yelling obscenities and other insults out loud. It was a fair assumption that she was drunk. She was cute and quite humorous and was dressed up for a ball. Her yelling was a bit annoying, but it was funny. She was eliciting laughs from everyone in the room despite her boisterous voice. She must have been a roller girl. On a large projection screen above a small stage where bands usually play, clips from derby bouts were playing in rotation. I remember one camera angle the cameraman took from the floor, pretty much shooting up the dresses of the jammers as they were about to jam. One of the skaters was wearing thigh highs with pretty pink bows just below her ass cheek. “Oh, my goodness,” I thought. “What the hell have I gotten into, a burlesque show?” I opted, naturally, to keep my disposition as professional as possible. I seem to remember the auditions starting with the DJ. I also seem to remember only one showed up. His name was J.J. and he sat behind the turntables like a pro, spinning punk rock and other obscure rock tunes, at least to my limited punk rock knowledge. He was the epitome of cool, switching from song to song while puffing on a cigarette, like some kind of musical satyr spinning tunes for a forest party of wild animals. It was then time for the people to try out for Master of Ceremony. I stood on the stage, looking out at the wild looking people and stern faces. I was very nervous, but executed my performance with all the poise I could muster. I was happy hear some of my jokes go over. I thought I did pretty good. I watched one man go up for the part. All he did was yell. I was no professional at the time, but I didn’t think that was going to work. Another guy went up. He was enthusiastic, but didn’t come across to me as anything special. He had the energy, but seemed to lack charisma. His gimmick name was funny, though: Chip Queso. It was time for the announcers to try out. The loud girl in the back made her way to the stage. She was very pretty, but still seemed very drunk. Her name was Whiskey L’Amour, and she knew what the game was all about. She did very good, even though I had no idea what she was saying in regards to derby jargon. I was then asked by someone, perhaps The Wrench, to go ahead and try out for announcer. I thought either Les had pulled some strings for me to try this role, or perhaps they thought I did good on the M.C. bit. Like in all auditions, the answer is always “yes”, even if it should be no. They put me on the stage with Whiskey L’Amour. I had to be professional. It was like improvisation, you had to share and work off of your partner. But my partner was a real motor mouth. She would not stop talking. I had to choose my words wisely when there was a break in the action. She was good, but did not seem to have the sense of sharing that announcers needed. I provided some very brief insight when I could, making sure to do what I thought was the number one job of an announcer: put the product over. In this case, get the rollergirls over for everything. Watching the clips, it was very obvious it was a sport. The athletic ability was apparent, and I made sure to illuminate that point every chance. “The skill and athleticism is outstanding.” “What tremendous balance these girls have.” “The athleticism is amazing” After a very short clip, they asked me and Whiskey to stay up again for a longer one. When I got down from my audition, I felt really good. I knew I was one of the better ones in the room, and I felt one of the three roles could be mine. As I sat down, there was a giant puddle of fluid in the chair. Somehow, some mystery liquid had been poured on the seat of my chair. I immediately assumed someone was trying to pick a fight with me. I was actually very upset. This was one of my good suits and it came across to me like someone was messing around with me. I turned around and glared at no one in particular. No one seemed suspicious enough for me to lay blame on. Perhaps it was an accident. Though I almost remained seated in the chair out of embarrassment, I moved to another chair using common sense. When I had moved, Chip Queso approached me. “Hey, man. You did really good up there.” “Thanks.”
/ / / / / /
The very next day, I received an e-mail from The Wrench.
I had earned one of the three spots as color commentator for the Texas Rollergirls.
=====
More to come... stay tuned...
ZBFbooks.com
March 1, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - CH. 1 - A LITTLE ABOUT ME
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“I see a bad moon rising,I see trouble on the way”
--- Creedence Clearwater Revival
CHAPTER I: A LITTLE ABOUT ME
Here’s a little back story on how I became the guy I am.I can’t tell you if I was destined for the stage. I can tell you, though, that being the only child to two loving parents gave me a lot of confidence in myself, and I will forever love them both for the strong foundation they provided me with. Naturally, everything the child does in his younger years is, or at least should be, lauded. I was the apple of my parent’s eyes. I completely understand how they feel. With my daughter, I feel that same emotion. But that part of the story comes a little later. My parents set good examples for me in the small south Texas town of Uvalde, Texas. Both my parents were hard workers, and passed on that trait to me. My mother was the bookkeeper for the school district and my father was a school administrator. Dad was a strict disciplinarian and very fair, and kept me in line early. When I got out of line, I got several smacks on the rear with a belt. When I got in big trouble in Middle School, I got three licks by the paddle by “Mr. Ibarra”, then got another three at home from “dad”. It is not for me to judge if I was ‘funny’ as a child. Hell, it is not for me to judge if I am funny today. But I do remember taking to joke books very early. Sitcoms were my favorite as a kid, and I will never forget sitting with my parents on Sunday nights watching the television programming on CBS. Some of those shows included Alice and the Jeffersons. The laughter my parents and I shared still echoes in my mind. I didn’t have any patience for drama. But laughter…. There’s something about this heavenly gift that I guess has always held an appeal to me. In my youth, I found an importance in it. A kind of safety. When you laugh, there’s no problems. There’s no danger. There’s no sadness. Just laughter. Happiness. Somehow I knew this was a feeling, a sensation, I wanted to give to others, as it brought me great joy. In my youth, I found laughter to be a great defense as well. In fact, it prevented me from getting my ass kicked by a ruthless gang of 1st grade bullies…. (Flashback fadeout)“Louis’ Gang” held sway over the playground of Dalton. It was a group of poor Hispanic kids that liked to literally gang up on one kid and kick the shit out of them, then disperse quickly like scared cats. I think many of them should have been third graders, but flunked out of 1st grade. Apparently, a rumor started that people who wanted protection from Louis’ gang needed to wear masking tape around their finger with some word on it. I remember a friend of mine, P.J. Reilly, telling me that it was important for me to have it on me. Instead, totally disregarding his warning, I said something to the effect that I wasn’t afraid of “Weezee’s Gang”, mocking the 1st grade gang kingpin with the same words George Jefferson used to call his wife. Someone ratted me out. I hate thinking that P.J. told him, but within minutes of my playful insult, I was literally surrounded by a large tree at the back of the playground. It was a kind of evergreen with long branches that created a large canopy over the bare ground below it. The tree provided a great shade and almost reminded me of a primitive hut. It also provided the perfect hiding spot for me to get my ass whipped. Anyway, so I’m surrounded, about to get beat up, and I start cracking jokes. Basically, just acting silly denying the allegation of insults. People started laughing. I continued to act silly, milking it for the sake of my skinny hide. Before I knew it, the crowd started to disperse. Slowly but surely, the kids wandered off. Thank God for 1st grade flunkies with short attention spans. (End of Flashback) I had a very blessed youth. Though my parents would argue, mostly on weekends when they had been drinking, things were about the same for a little kid growing up in the ‘80’s in a small south Texas town. I enjoyed classic video games and even had my own Atari 2600. I also received my first comic book, a Sgt. Rock comic my father bought for me. I was very happy. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” affected me like no other movie until “Night of the Living Dead”. Indiana Jones was everything I wanted to be: smart, tough, and a daring risk taker. He was also educated. For months I would walk around with a fedora and bullwhip at my side. I even took two school pictures with it during the 5th and 6th grade. Doctor Who inspired me the same way Indiana Jones did. But Dr. Who had great adventures and humor. It was a show I could only see on Friday nights, as it was on late on PBS. The Doctor influenced me to wear a long scarf and jacket during my junior high and high school years as well. I was hot, but not in the classical hunk sense, more like Pepe Le Pew. Thanks Tom Baker. I wanted to preserve the TV shows, but was too young to figure out how to program the VCR. So to preserve the episodes on Friday night, I decided to put an audio tape recorder by the television and describe the action as it took place on the screen. For the next two or three years, I recorded several boxes full of tape, describing each and every action. Already, the commentating was getting in my blood. Or was it just hearing my own voice. Probably both. It was also around this time that I began to appreciate professional wrestling. The stories were dynamic and the wrestlers were admirable. Great bad guys would really make me angry, almost to tears on occasion. I also began to listen to what the announcers were saying, how they were saying it. It was the birth of my appreciation for the artform. The earliest announcers that I remember were Gordon Solie, who was the raspy voice of the Saturday night show World Championship Wrestling. Bill Mercer was another great voice, working for World Class Championship Wrestling. He was doing the commentary straight from the Dallas Sportatorium. Their distinctive voices and enthusiasm for the action provided many moments of excitement for me, planting the seeds for my future in announcing. Theatre came to me by accident. A girl I had a crush on was in local community theatre plays. I figured the best way to be around her was to try out for a play. So when I heard about an audition for the summer show, I asked my parents to be a part of it. Unfortunately, she was not in the play I tried out for, but it provided me a chance to be in my first public performance. The play was “Winnie the Pooh”. Being a young kid and having no theatre experience, I was a small woodland creature. It would be the first of subsequent summers performing in Uvalde’s YouP.O.P. (Youth Players On the Plaza) at the Uvalde Opera House. In the hallowed halls of the Opera house, I learned some of the fundamental aspects of performance. Most of it revolved around blocking and vocal work. I would go on to play such roles as Huckleberry Finn, Long John Silver, the Artful Dodger, and the Professor from “South Pacific”. High School was fun. For the most part, I concentrated on football and my studies. I wanted to date a lot of girls, but never mustered up enough courage to ask any of them. Instead, I formed a comedy troupe called “The Comedy Cesspool” with my friends and wrote short informal sketches for talent shows at the schools. Most of them involved acting out jokes I had heard and stealing stuff from the “Airplane” movies. My High School comedy career culminated a week before graduation. My friends and I produced a show at the Opera House called “An Evening with the Comedy Cesspool”. It was an entire show I helped write and produce, with sketches we had all written. I received a scholarship to act at Bee County College under the direction of Robert Hodde. This man blew my mind when it came to theatre. The entire world looked so different to me after listening to his theatre teachings. College was also a learning experience when it came to girls. I actually had my first “sit down and make out” session during this time. It was amazing. In a way, I’m glad things did not get too sexually crazy, as I was able to keep my grades up and graduate. I think that if things had gotten out of hand, I probably would have concentrated on other things instead of graduating. The one thing that I did do that involved physical contact with the female species was dancing. In college, I became very good at country and Tejano dancing. I built a foundation in Uvalde, with the two step, polka, and Tejano dancing. Really cute girls helped me learn to dance. To this day, I’m an exceptional dancer and since that time only one person has told me that I cannot dance: the woman who was to become my wife. The time in college was good for my growth, but my mother was having to deal with something at the house that would haunt me for years. I say haunt, because I did not quite realize the gravity of the situation. Perhaps I did and just denied it. My father was progressing rapidly with a form of Alzheimer’s disease. My father, Valeriano Torres “Bowie” Ibarra, was the middle child in a family of five. He served in the United States Marines for four years, and went on to earn his degrees in Education and Administration at Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State University). Before he was in the service, he saw my mother for the first time. My father knew he was going to marry my mother in that first moment. The story goes is that my father was swimming with a friend at Garner State Park, a riverside gathering spot for anyone in south Texas. My mother and her parents, Olivia and Fernando Gonzalez, worked at the park every summer when they were not doing migrant work. My mother was working as a soda jerk at a concession stand by the river. When he saw her, he told the friend words to the effect of, “I’m going to marry that woman”. When my father returned from the military, he saw her again at a boxing match at a local American Legion post. My mother’s brother, Carlos, was boxing on a card at the Legion. My mother did not respond to my father’s advances because he was drinking. It also might have been because her father, Fernando, knew my dad and his brother, Franciso, from the Montana Bar where they would drink together. My dad was loud and Francisco would always get in fights. It all worked out, though, and my mother and father were married. With my father’s advanced degrees in Education, he set a standard for work ethic and the importance of education to me early. He was a teacher and vice principal of schools, he followed me as my school principal in my High School career. I tended to stay out of trouble, so he never cramped what crappy style I had at the time. In a way, it was comforting to know he was there. Apart from the great paddle incident of 7thgrade, I never had to answer to Mr. Ibarra or my father for things I did wrong. His ass whippings early in my life kept me in line for the most important times of my life: getting my education. I am forever indebted to him. I regret not talking to him more in my youth, and not remembering his words he shared with me. My father submitted to the Alzheimer’s two days before my 23rdbirthday. Theatre would remain a powerful part of my life during the struggle with my father and afterwards. I participated in the legendary Canyon, Texas outdoor musical drama where I learned a lot about theatre. Bee County College kept me busy as well, and Southwest Texas State presented more social, sexual, and emotional tests than I could imagine. My father passed away during my final semester of school, and though it was very difficult, I moved on. During my time at Texas State, I did not participate in a main stage play. Though I did form a sketch and improvisation comedy group called “The Skinniez” with J.J. Olsen, Christina Piazza, and Donna Yarborough. I also experimented with stand up comedy. The Velveeta Room off of Sixth street was a proving ground for me. I’ll never forget the second time I performed, feeling like I really did well. The crowd was laughing, and that was good considering the fact that I was performing for an after midnight crowd. These experiences were helping to set the stage for my work in derby. I ended up graduating from Southwest Texas State XXXXX. The real gift was making two of my greatest friends: Brian Kroeger and Clayton Odam, who would go on to become Jeromy Sage. He made a name for himself in the Texas independent wrestling scene in Texas in the 90’s. When I first met Brian Kroeger, he hated me. It had to do with the fact that every time I saw him, I would quote a line from “Animal House”: “Um, Larry Kroeger. Ah. We need the dues.” I first met Clayton Odam after being invited to a wrestling pay-per-view that pitted my old favorite Ric Flair against Odam’s favorite “Macho Man” Randy Savage in a cage. Things were a little tense, as Clayton was a big fan of Macho. So big, in fact, he dressed up as Macho when the event arrived. Then the match went down, and things got a little awkward. Flair won, taking not only the Heavyweight title, but “Macho’s” woman as well. I went ahead and left before the main event. It had to be destiny meeting these guys as the Monday Night Wars had commenced and were pretty much in full swing when I met them. Many a Monday Night was spent watching wrestling with my new best friends. It was during this time that Brian and Odam would point out how much I knew the moves and commented that I would make a great announcer. I pretty much felt the same way and wished that it would happen someday. I was glad that I befriended them. They eased the pain of my father passing. During my time of mourning, I chose to give Odam my wrestling videotape collection that I had compiled from years of watching the old Monday night show. He was grateful. Since my father’s passing, things just did not seem funny anymore. I quit working on comedy, got a new wardrobe, and reexamined my life. XXXX Weeks before graduation, I was dreaming of moving to Mexico to become a Mexican luchador. But plans always change. I blew out my knee roughhousing with the likes of Odam and Kroeger after an ECW pay-per-view. It sucked royal. Surgery and recovery brought me back to San Marcos where I began work again, XXXXX XXXXXXX Frustration with my job moved me to audition for movies and kick start my acting career. I got my first taste of the movies working as an extra in “The Alamo”. I took three days off from work to participate in it, and I loved it. Before long I was represented by Acclaim Talent, and the auditions were coming in. I landed my first real job that sent me to Omaha, Nebraska for a Nebraska Medical commercial. When I was paid for the gig, I could not believe my eyes. Work be damned. If I wanted some extra money, I was going to audition. It was the initial need for work that drew me to AustinActors.net. A bulletin was placed on the board calling for auditions for announcers for a roller derby team in Austin. I did not know a damn thing about roller derby. But the fact was it was a chance to be an announcer. I responded to the e-mail and prepared for the audition.
It was a moment I’ll never forget.
-----
More to come. Stay tuned.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“I see a bad moon rising,I see trouble on the way”
--- Creedence Clearwater Revival
CHAPTER I: A LITTLE ABOUT ME
Here’s a little back story on how I became the guy I am.I can’t tell you if I was destined for the stage. I can tell you, though, that being the only child to two loving parents gave me a lot of confidence in myself, and I will forever love them both for the strong foundation they provided me with. Naturally, everything the child does in his younger years is, or at least should be, lauded. I was the apple of my parent’s eyes. I completely understand how they feel. With my daughter, I feel that same emotion. But that part of the story comes a little later. My parents set good examples for me in the small south Texas town of Uvalde, Texas. Both my parents were hard workers, and passed on that trait to me. My mother was the bookkeeper for the school district and my father was a school administrator. Dad was a strict disciplinarian and very fair, and kept me in line early. When I got out of line, I got several smacks on the rear with a belt. When I got in big trouble in Middle School, I got three licks by the paddle by “Mr. Ibarra”, then got another three at home from “dad”. It is not for me to judge if I was ‘funny’ as a child. Hell, it is not for me to judge if I am funny today. But I do remember taking to joke books very early. Sitcoms were my favorite as a kid, and I will never forget sitting with my parents on Sunday nights watching the television programming on CBS. Some of those shows included Alice and the Jeffersons. The laughter my parents and I shared still echoes in my mind. I didn’t have any patience for drama. But laughter…. There’s something about this heavenly gift that I guess has always held an appeal to me. In my youth, I found an importance in it. A kind of safety. When you laugh, there’s no problems. There’s no danger. There’s no sadness. Just laughter. Happiness. Somehow I knew this was a feeling, a sensation, I wanted to give to others, as it brought me great joy. In my youth, I found laughter to be a great defense as well. In fact, it prevented me from getting my ass kicked by a ruthless gang of 1st grade bullies…. (Flashback fadeout)“Louis’ Gang” held sway over the playground of Dalton. It was a group of poor Hispanic kids that liked to literally gang up on one kid and kick the shit out of them, then disperse quickly like scared cats. I think many of them should have been third graders, but flunked out of 1st grade. Apparently, a rumor started that people who wanted protection from Louis’ gang needed to wear masking tape around their finger with some word on it. I remember a friend of mine, P.J. Reilly, telling me that it was important for me to have it on me. Instead, totally disregarding his warning, I said something to the effect that I wasn’t afraid of “Weezee’s Gang”, mocking the 1st grade gang kingpin with the same words George Jefferson used to call his wife. Someone ratted me out. I hate thinking that P.J. told him, but within minutes of my playful insult, I was literally surrounded by a large tree at the back of the playground. It was a kind of evergreen with long branches that created a large canopy over the bare ground below it. The tree provided a great shade and almost reminded me of a primitive hut. It also provided the perfect hiding spot for me to get my ass whipped. Anyway, so I’m surrounded, about to get beat up, and I start cracking jokes. Basically, just acting silly denying the allegation of insults. People started laughing. I continued to act silly, milking it for the sake of my skinny hide. Before I knew it, the crowd started to disperse. Slowly but surely, the kids wandered off. Thank God for 1st grade flunkies with short attention spans. (End of Flashback) I had a very blessed youth. Though my parents would argue, mostly on weekends when they had been drinking, things were about the same for a little kid growing up in the ‘80’s in a small south Texas town. I enjoyed classic video games and even had my own Atari 2600. I also received my first comic book, a Sgt. Rock comic my father bought for me. I was very happy. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” affected me like no other movie until “Night of the Living Dead”. Indiana Jones was everything I wanted to be: smart, tough, and a daring risk taker. He was also educated. For months I would walk around with a fedora and bullwhip at my side. I even took two school pictures with it during the 5th and 6th grade. Doctor Who inspired me the same way Indiana Jones did. But Dr. Who had great adventures and humor. It was a show I could only see on Friday nights, as it was on late on PBS. The Doctor influenced me to wear a long scarf and jacket during my junior high and high school years as well. I was hot, but not in the classical hunk sense, more like Pepe Le Pew. Thanks Tom Baker. I wanted to preserve the TV shows, but was too young to figure out how to program the VCR. So to preserve the episodes on Friday night, I decided to put an audio tape recorder by the television and describe the action as it took place on the screen. For the next two or three years, I recorded several boxes full of tape, describing each and every action. Already, the commentating was getting in my blood. Or was it just hearing my own voice. Probably both. It was also around this time that I began to appreciate professional wrestling. The stories were dynamic and the wrestlers were admirable. Great bad guys would really make me angry, almost to tears on occasion. I also began to listen to what the announcers were saying, how they were saying it. It was the birth of my appreciation for the artform. The earliest announcers that I remember were Gordon Solie, who was the raspy voice of the Saturday night show World Championship Wrestling. Bill Mercer was another great voice, working for World Class Championship Wrestling. He was doing the commentary straight from the Dallas Sportatorium. Their distinctive voices and enthusiasm for the action provided many moments of excitement for me, planting the seeds for my future in announcing. Theatre came to me by accident. A girl I had a crush on was in local community theatre plays. I figured the best way to be around her was to try out for a play. So when I heard about an audition for the summer show, I asked my parents to be a part of it. Unfortunately, she was not in the play I tried out for, but it provided me a chance to be in my first public performance. The play was “Winnie the Pooh”. Being a young kid and having no theatre experience, I was a small woodland creature. It would be the first of subsequent summers performing in Uvalde’s YouP.O.P. (Youth Players On the Plaza) at the Uvalde Opera House. In the hallowed halls of the Opera house, I learned some of the fundamental aspects of performance. Most of it revolved around blocking and vocal work. I would go on to play such roles as Huckleberry Finn, Long John Silver, the Artful Dodger, and the Professor from “South Pacific”. High School was fun. For the most part, I concentrated on football and my studies. I wanted to date a lot of girls, but never mustered up enough courage to ask any of them. Instead, I formed a comedy troupe called “The Comedy Cesspool” with my friends and wrote short informal sketches for talent shows at the schools. Most of them involved acting out jokes I had heard and stealing stuff from the “Airplane” movies. My High School comedy career culminated a week before graduation. My friends and I produced a show at the Opera House called “An Evening with the Comedy Cesspool”. It was an entire show I helped write and produce, with sketches we had all written. I received a scholarship to act at Bee County College under the direction of Robert Hodde. This man blew my mind when it came to theatre. The entire world looked so different to me after listening to his theatre teachings. College was also a learning experience when it came to girls. I actually had my first “sit down and make out” session during this time. It was amazing. In a way, I’m glad things did not get too sexually crazy, as I was able to keep my grades up and graduate. I think that if things had gotten out of hand, I probably would have concentrated on other things instead of graduating. The one thing that I did do that involved physical contact with the female species was dancing. In college, I became very good at country and Tejano dancing. I built a foundation in Uvalde, with the two step, polka, and Tejano dancing. Really cute girls helped me learn to dance. To this day, I’m an exceptional dancer and since that time only one person has told me that I cannot dance: the woman who was to become my wife. The time in college was good for my growth, but my mother was having to deal with something at the house that would haunt me for years. I say haunt, because I did not quite realize the gravity of the situation. Perhaps I did and just denied it. My father was progressing rapidly with a form of Alzheimer’s disease. My father, Valeriano Torres “Bowie” Ibarra, was the middle child in a family of five. He served in the United States Marines for four years, and went on to earn his degrees in Education and Administration at Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State University). Before he was in the service, he saw my mother for the first time. My father knew he was going to marry my mother in that first moment. The story goes is that my father was swimming with a friend at Garner State Park, a riverside gathering spot for anyone in south Texas. My mother and her parents, Olivia and Fernando Gonzalez, worked at the park every summer when they were not doing migrant work. My mother was working as a soda jerk at a concession stand by the river. When he saw her, he told the friend words to the effect of, “I’m going to marry that woman”. When my father returned from the military, he saw her again at a boxing match at a local American Legion post. My mother’s brother, Carlos, was boxing on a card at the Legion. My mother did not respond to my father’s advances because he was drinking. It also might have been because her father, Fernando, knew my dad and his brother, Franciso, from the Montana Bar where they would drink together. My dad was loud and Francisco would always get in fights. It all worked out, though, and my mother and father were married. With my father’s advanced degrees in Education, he set a standard for work ethic and the importance of education to me early. He was a teacher and vice principal of schools, he followed me as my school principal in my High School career. I tended to stay out of trouble, so he never cramped what crappy style I had at the time. In a way, it was comforting to know he was there. Apart from the great paddle incident of 7thgrade, I never had to answer to Mr. Ibarra or my father for things I did wrong. His ass whippings early in my life kept me in line for the most important times of my life: getting my education. I am forever indebted to him. I regret not talking to him more in my youth, and not remembering his words he shared with me. My father submitted to the Alzheimer’s two days before my 23rdbirthday. Theatre would remain a powerful part of my life during the struggle with my father and afterwards. I participated in the legendary Canyon, Texas outdoor musical drama where I learned a lot about theatre. Bee County College kept me busy as well, and Southwest Texas State presented more social, sexual, and emotional tests than I could imagine. My father passed away during my final semester of school, and though it was very difficult, I moved on. During my time at Texas State, I did not participate in a main stage play. Though I did form a sketch and improvisation comedy group called “The Skinniez” with J.J. Olsen, Christina Piazza, and Donna Yarborough. I also experimented with stand up comedy. The Velveeta Room off of Sixth street was a proving ground for me. I’ll never forget the second time I performed, feeling like I really did well. The crowd was laughing, and that was good considering the fact that I was performing for an after midnight crowd. These experiences were helping to set the stage for my work in derby. I ended up graduating from Southwest Texas State XXXXX. The real gift was making two of my greatest friends: Brian Kroeger and Clayton Odam, who would go on to become Jeromy Sage. He made a name for himself in the Texas independent wrestling scene in Texas in the 90’s. When I first met Brian Kroeger, he hated me. It had to do with the fact that every time I saw him, I would quote a line from “Animal House”: “Um, Larry Kroeger. Ah. We need the dues.” I first met Clayton Odam after being invited to a wrestling pay-per-view that pitted my old favorite Ric Flair against Odam’s favorite “Macho Man” Randy Savage in a cage. Things were a little tense, as Clayton was a big fan of Macho. So big, in fact, he dressed up as Macho when the event arrived. Then the match went down, and things got a little awkward. Flair won, taking not only the Heavyweight title, but “Macho’s” woman as well. I went ahead and left before the main event. It had to be destiny meeting these guys as the Monday Night Wars had commenced and were pretty much in full swing when I met them. Many a Monday Night was spent watching wrestling with my new best friends. It was during this time that Brian and Odam would point out how much I knew the moves and commented that I would make a great announcer. I pretty much felt the same way and wished that it would happen someday. I was glad that I befriended them. They eased the pain of my father passing. During my time of mourning, I chose to give Odam my wrestling videotape collection that I had compiled from years of watching the old Monday night show. He was grateful. Since my father’s passing, things just did not seem funny anymore. I quit working on comedy, got a new wardrobe, and reexamined my life. XXXX Weeks before graduation, I was dreaming of moving to Mexico to become a Mexican luchador. But plans always change. I blew out my knee roughhousing with the likes of Odam and Kroeger after an ECW pay-per-view. It sucked royal. Surgery and recovery brought me back to San Marcos where I began work again, XXXXX XXXXXXX Frustration with my job moved me to audition for movies and kick start my acting career. I got my first taste of the movies working as an extra in “The Alamo”. I took three days off from work to participate in it, and I loved it. Before long I was represented by Acclaim Talent, and the auditions were coming in. I landed my first real job that sent me to Omaha, Nebraska for a Nebraska Medical commercial. When I was paid for the gig, I could not believe my eyes. Work be damned. If I wanted some extra money, I was going to audition. It was the initial need for work that drew me to AustinActors.net. A bulletin was placed on the board calling for auditions for announcers for a roller derby team in Austin. I did not know a damn thing about roller derby. But the fact was it was a chance to be an announcer. I responded to the e-mail and prepared for the audition.
It was a moment I’ll never forget.
-----
More to come. Stay tuned.
February 29, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer - Prologue
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
Dedicated to every flat track derby announcer in the world, and the three fans who actually listen to us (not including my mom <who, in reality, has never been to a single bout I‘ve called [Thanks a lot, mom]>).
My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I was an agent with the CIA for ten years. This is my story….
OK. Not really. My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I feed the homeless and work as a diplomat to for the United nations. This is my story…
Um. No. Alright….
My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I was the first ever flat-track derby color commentator who eventually came to be the most misunderstood and reviled man in the Texas Rollergirls organization. My downfall coincided with some of the worst times my life would ever see….
This is my story….
“When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me lightAnd place my merit in the eye of scorn,Upon thy side against myself will fightAnd prove thee virtuous, though thou are for- sworn….”
Excerpt from Shakespeare’s Sonnet LXXXVIII
Introduction
“Since the Dawn of time, man has always wondered which roller derby team is the most bad ass….”
And so began the first ever flat track derby championship bout. Tonight, the Hustlers were taking on the Hot Rod Honeys in what was to be a historic bout. Being recorded on video to be set to DVD, the bout would potentially be seen around the nation and, perhaps ultimately, the globe. Les “MotorMouth” McGehee was in fine form, as always. I had known Les for close to five years when I was performing improvisational comedy with ComedySportz in San Antonio. He played for the Austin team, a team I always envied and admired for their comedic grace and intelligence. I had only called two games before this outstanding finale, and I already had favorites. Dinah Mite was an amazing physical specimen and outstanding player at all positions. Vendetta von Dutch was a spunky blocker with a penchant for the dramatic. And my absolute favorite, White Lightnin’: a rough and ready all-around player that had no problem taking out opponents while jamming. The sport was extremely appealing to me as it was a chance for me to do what I believe is every man’s secret dream. No, not sit around drinking beer watching some of the sexiest women in Austin skate around a track and smash into each other on a rink that was open to the public just a few hours before. Gawking spectators, who were rattled and confused at the sporting aspect of the spectacle, cheered and had a good time supporting their favorite team. Their mouths kept nice and moist with Lone Star tall boys. But my secret dream to announce, to be the official voice of a sporting event, had reached a new high. One of what I hoped would be many, a sweet milestone. With Whiskey L’Amour and “Motormouth” McGehee, we were voices that would become familiar with the new fans joining us on the first Sunday of every month. No one had seen this sport in years, much less this new sport sans the antiquated ramp, so the job was monumental.But, man, was it fun! I was still trying to figure out the names of the positions. Jammers were in the jam? The pivots scored points? Blockers were jamming? I had never paid too much attention to Derby, even in my youth. My most distant memories of it was a woman clad in a brown business suit commanding her minions from the middle of a banked track. For some reason that my young mind cannot remember, the announcers were emphasizing her role, getting her over for a for a reason I did not care about at the time or probably didn’t understand, kind of like a dog watching American style football. It knows there’s something important going on, but can’t quite comprehend what or why. But that was in the distant past. I was not only a part of this historic event, but about to make history in my own personal life. I was soon to be married, with the wedding, itself, just around the corner. I was also two years away from turning 30 and was given a peculiar prediction by a close friend and former public access TV figure named Chris Athanas. He told me once that at the age of 30, the stars of the zodiac cause a monumental change in your life, something to do with one of the planets reaching the end of its 30-year journey around the sun, marked on the day I was born. It was a reshuffle, the universe preparing for another 30-year trip. This ending and beginning signaled a radical shift in every aspect of a human’s life.
As the whistle blew to begin the first jam of the first ever flat track roller derby championship bout, I somehow knew things would never be the same.
In fact, it would change my life forever.
Follow Bowie at his official Facebook Page HERE.Follow Bowie on Twitter HERE.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
Dedicated to every flat track derby announcer in the world, and the three fans who actually listen to us (not including my mom <who, in reality, has never been to a single bout I‘ve called [Thanks a lot, mom]>).
My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I was an agent with the CIA for ten years. This is my story….
OK. Not really. My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I feed the homeless and work as a diplomat to for the United nations. This is my story…
Um. No. Alright….
My name is Bowie V. Ibarra. I was the first ever flat-track derby color commentator who eventually came to be the most misunderstood and reviled man in the Texas Rollergirls organization. My downfall coincided with some of the worst times my life would ever see….
This is my story….
“When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me lightAnd place my merit in the eye of scorn,Upon thy side against myself will fightAnd prove thee virtuous, though thou are for- sworn….”
Excerpt from Shakespeare’s Sonnet LXXXVIII
Introduction
“Since the Dawn of time, man has always wondered which roller derby team is the most bad ass….”
And so began the first ever flat track derby championship bout. Tonight, the Hustlers were taking on the Hot Rod Honeys in what was to be a historic bout. Being recorded on video to be set to DVD, the bout would potentially be seen around the nation and, perhaps ultimately, the globe. Les “MotorMouth” McGehee was in fine form, as always. I had known Les for close to five years when I was performing improvisational comedy with ComedySportz in San Antonio. He played for the Austin team, a team I always envied and admired for their comedic grace and intelligence. I had only called two games before this outstanding finale, and I already had favorites. Dinah Mite was an amazing physical specimen and outstanding player at all positions. Vendetta von Dutch was a spunky blocker with a penchant for the dramatic. And my absolute favorite, White Lightnin’: a rough and ready all-around player that had no problem taking out opponents while jamming. The sport was extremely appealing to me as it was a chance for me to do what I believe is every man’s secret dream. No, not sit around drinking beer watching some of the sexiest women in Austin skate around a track and smash into each other on a rink that was open to the public just a few hours before. Gawking spectators, who were rattled and confused at the sporting aspect of the spectacle, cheered and had a good time supporting their favorite team. Their mouths kept nice and moist with Lone Star tall boys. But my secret dream to announce, to be the official voice of a sporting event, had reached a new high. One of what I hoped would be many, a sweet milestone. With Whiskey L’Amour and “Motormouth” McGehee, we were voices that would become familiar with the new fans joining us on the first Sunday of every month. No one had seen this sport in years, much less this new sport sans the antiquated ramp, so the job was monumental.But, man, was it fun! I was still trying to figure out the names of the positions. Jammers were in the jam? The pivots scored points? Blockers were jamming? I had never paid too much attention to Derby, even in my youth. My most distant memories of it was a woman clad in a brown business suit commanding her minions from the middle of a banked track. For some reason that my young mind cannot remember, the announcers were emphasizing her role, getting her over for a for a reason I did not care about at the time or probably didn’t understand, kind of like a dog watching American style football. It knows there’s something important going on, but can’t quite comprehend what or why. But that was in the distant past. I was not only a part of this historic event, but about to make history in my own personal life. I was soon to be married, with the wedding, itself, just around the corner. I was also two years away from turning 30 and was given a peculiar prediction by a close friend and former public access TV figure named Chris Athanas. He told me once that at the age of 30, the stars of the zodiac cause a monumental change in your life, something to do with one of the planets reaching the end of its 30-year journey around the sun, marked on the day I was born. It was a reshuffle, the universe preparing for another 30-year trip. This ending and beginning signaled a radical shift in every aspect of a human’s life.
As the whistle blew to begin the first jam of the first ever flat track roller derby championship bout, I somehow knew things would never be the same.
In fact, it would change my life forever.
Follow Bowie at his official Facebook Page HERE.Follow Bowie on Twitter HERE.
December 14, 2015
ZOMBIES: 'We're Alive' Fan Fiction - Chapter 11 - Locked, Loaded, and Locked In
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
11. LOCKED, LOADED, AND LOCKED IN
When Burt finally arrived at the sidewalk just across the street from the store, he sighed in frustrated disappointment. It was worse than he thought. Black puffs of smoke were billowing out of one of the windows of ‘Locked and Loaded’. Fire, he thought. “Dammit,” he groaned. Though Burt wanted to run to the building, he knew he had to take a moment to recover. He had dashed down the sidewalk amid the chaos of the city for five city blocks. He had avoided conflicts, mostly adults asking for help. He never changed that thought that they were completely capable of defending themselves. It was a cruel call to deny people help. But this wasn’t about being courteous anymore. Not like many people in the US were courteous anymore. Courtesy goes hand in hand with civilization. Watching the fistfights, desperation, and bloody violence on his run was proof enough to Burt that civility in the City of Montebello was temporarily out of service. The episode at the apartment with the children was proof enough for Burt. This world had not time for civility. It was about survival.
Burt had a splitting headache. He was very tired, and was feeling like his eyes were trying to close. His vision was blurring. Leaning against a building, Burt caught his breath. “C’mon, man,” he said to himself. “Get moving!” Burt took off across the street. As dangerous as it was, he moved through the slow and go traffic with precision. He was surprised the streets weren’t completely choked with cars, but imagined this section of the city was still maneuverable while other parts weren’t. Jumping over the last vehicle, he tumbled off the hood and fell to the sidewalk. He groaned in pain, looking up at his store and all the people in it as the driver of the car he just tumbled over yelled, “Hey, fuck you, man!” Anger flooded Burt’s heart. But the anger was not against the driver who just insulted him. It was for the people looting the store. He was no killer. But he was going to make a statement that he would do just that if needed. “Get away from my store!” he shouted. The people standing around his store turned to him and laughed. Burt stood up and unslung his M-16. He held it in front of him. A side of him still wanted to unload on the people. Plug every single one of them. Put them away like a Chicago gangster with a Tommy Gun. These were the same idiots he despised, the same ones that started this madness. These crazy people who were going so far as to eat each other. What kind of human does that? These people needed to be stopped, exterminated like vermin to never infest the city with doom like they did today. But who was he to decide who lived and died? He was no god. He was just a man with a goal. There was another method of achieving his goal that was only moments away from being in his hands. He aimed the machine gun just over the heads of the looters and opened fire. The looters scattered like roaches spooked by the sudden illumination of lights in a room. Burt fired short bursts, advancing to the store. Hot shells raced from the rifle onto the pavement, singing the song of a hellborne wind chime. Some people had pistols of their own. Maybe even stolen from the store. They shot at Burt, but were completely missing their target because they were running and shooting wild. As he finished every round in the magazine, he moved to the front door. The people had scattered to Burt’s superior firepower. Laying by the door were two corpses. Both had parts of their bodies dismembered. Their stomachs had been torn open. Their entrails lay in pieces all around the body. Burt didn’t realize the bodies were there until he reached the door and he stepped in the pool of blood their bodies had spit out onto the pavement. He coughed in disgust. Burt ducked his head just under the plume of smoke and walked into the store. Broken glass from the front door crunched under his feet. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew it was not going to be good. The smoke shrouded the store in mystery. Burt could feel the fire nearby, and immediately moved to where the fire extinguisher had been installed. As he cleared the smoke, he was shocked at what he saw. The pillaging was exactly as disastrous as he’d imagined.
Grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall, he turned it on the flames. It wasn’t long before the chemical cold of the extinguisher put out the small fires, reducing them to smoky piles of rubble.Near the front door, Burt could hear yet another gathering of troublemakers. He could see their shadows through the smoke, and hear their chatting. “Get the hell out of my shop, you bastards!” he shouted. The stout old man opened fire with precision just over the heads of the looters, quickly making them scatter like pigeons startled at a downtown park. Two of them opened fire with pistols as they ran, making Burt dive behind a wooden case that was now lined with broken glass where pistols used to lie in quiet solitude. “You just fucked up, old man,” shouted a voice. “Just walk away,” said Burt with an exhausted smile. Lord Humungous. “I’ll spare your life. Just walk away.” “Fuck you, old man,” shouted the thug. The crunching of glass below the adversary’s feet signaled to Burt that the enemy was making a move. Burt listened closely to the direction he estimated the sound was coming from. But he could not get a bead on it. He was too tired to concentrate. I’ll be goddamned, thought the old man to himself. Just overwhelm him, thought Burt to himself. Overwhelm him with firepower. Reloading the M-16, Burt stood up and immediately opened fire. The boy ducked and jumped out of the way, crying out like a little girl. Burt did not let up. He emptied the M-16 on his own store, making the kid scramble in fear back to the front door. When the M-16 ran out of ammo, he immediately pulled out his pistol and opened fire. The time between weapons gave the kid a chance to scurry out the door like a scalded dog, running in fear and respect. “Goddamn right,” muttered Burt. But the smoke, exertion, and hunger was taking its toll. The room was pillaged. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. But he had one more thing to check. Shuffling in an exhausted daze to one of his first safes, he realized it wasn’t as safe as he thought.“All gone,” he said, looking inside and sighing. “All gone.” The safe had been forced open. It wasn’t a job for amateurs. Few knew about the safe. The only ones who did, who were also capable of opening it, were some of his regular customers. From that list, a modest few had the tools and the talent to pull it off. He was disappointed, if his theory was correct. He couldn’t believe they would do that to him. To the store. To Shirley. There was one safe, though, that only he knew about. Shirley knew about it, too. It was hersafe, after all. Stumbling, Burt hoped against hope that it was unharmed, unopened. Burt breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived and saw it was completely untouched. “Shirley,” he whispered. “You’re safe.” Inside the safe was ‘Shirley’, her favorite gun: a Desert Eagle. Dropping the fire extinguisher to the floor, Burt leaned against the wall in complete exhaustion. He had reached the store. And though he would have to take out an insurance claim on the entire business, his prized possession in the safe, the one thing that could never be replaced by insurance money, was safe. There was no sense staying in the store now. It was completely ransacked, vulnerable to anyone and everyone who dared enter. The store could be fixed, repaired. And her gun was still safe. Burt was exhausted. Totally spent. Cashed. He needed food. Water. There might still be both in his office in the back. He could go get it. But all he wanted to do for the moment was rest. He won. He got what he wanted. Now it was his body’s turn to reward itself. First, with rest. He leaned against a wall and let it support his body as he slid down and sat on the floor. His eyelids fell across his eyes. No part of his body wanted to move. Every part of his body wanted to rest. Eyes closed, he could still hear the chaos outside.Sirens.Gunshots.Cries for help.Cries of terror.Cries of anguish.A dog barking.Car wreck.More sirens.Muffled shouts.Gunfire. Scattered gunfire. Then, the crunching of glass. Shuffling feet from the smoky front room with the muttering of yet another set of opportunists. “Get out of my store,” shouted Burt, firing three rounds from his pistol into the air. The feet shuffled back out of the store. Shouts of fearful obscenities faded away as the thieves took off. Burt hardly opened his eyes. He couldn’t. It was as if they were weighed down. He was completely exhausted. His head throbbed with pain. He needed the nap, and let the sounds of pandemonium sing its lullaby to him yet again.And again, sirens.Gunshots.Cries for help.Cries of terror.Cries of anguish.A dog barking.Car wreck.More sirens.Muffled shouts.Gunfire. Scattered gunfire. Then, the crunching of glass again, a slow crunching of glass from the smoky front room. There was no muttering of opportunists, only the silence of mystery. “Get out of my store!” shouted Burt. The feet stopped moving. Silence. There was no running like before. So Burt fired the last three rounds into the air again. Again, silence. Only the sounds of the nightmare city outside could be heard. Burt’s lullaby. “I said get out!” shouted Burt again, trying to force his eyes open. He needed to stand, but his body had shut down. Silence again. The crunching stopped, but the sound of a person fleeing through the glass was, once again, not heard. There was something different about the silence. It reminded him of what a big cat walking through a wilderness, preparing to pounce must be like. Silent to find the direction of its prey. Then, the crunching of glass started again.Burt wanted to shout again. But he stopped himself. Something about the moment reminded him of playing ‘Marco Polo’ back at the public pool in Sacramento with his cousins. With eyes closed, he would shout, ‘Marco’, to which his cousins and friends would reply, ‘Polo’. He would try to swim to their voices. Today, the pool was ‘Locked and Loaded’. The water was the smoke. His cousins were strangers in his store. This was suddenly no game. He was being hunted.Burt no longer had ammo. He assumed he wouldn’t need so much for the run. He also took for granted he could get some here at the store. But it was not to be. “Dammit,” he whispered. He had no energy to fight. He needed to hide. Then, from the front room, a pair of legs came into view. It’s upper body was shrouded in smoke, walking in the haze as if unaffected. “What the hell?” whispered Burt. Then, the figure emerged from the smoke. Its face was pale. Its skin, clammy. Its mouth and hands were stained in blood. It wore a white lab coat, and must have been from the nearby scientific facility. “The cannibals,” whispered Burt. “Shit.” Burt had to move. He was in no shape to fight. A bathroom was just a few feet away to his right. Burt stood up slowly, leaning against the wall for support as he moved to the room. He did not look back as he heard the person vocalize a peculiar but frightening groan. “Shit,” Burt muttered, stumbling towards the door. He moved against it, hoping it was open. It was not. It gave the ghoul enough time to reach him. “No!” shouted Burt, shoving the bloody figure away from him. The shove gave Burt just enough time to open the door and fall in the restroom. Dazed, Burt looked up. The cannibal was picking itself off the ground, ready to pounce. Burt lunged with all his might to the door, slamming it shut in the face of the creature like a door knock from an insurance salesman. The beast beat at the door as Burt twisted the lock in the gilded knob. He slid down the door, falling to his ass. This was as far as he was going to go. With the thing outside his door, he was under siege with nothing to fight back with. “I can wait, you bastard,” whispered Burt defiantly. Within several minutes, the pounding stopped. Several minutes after that, Burt fell asleep again. The monster didn’t get him. But his diabetes did.
Burt didn’t know how long he had rested, but he knew it had to be long enough for that thing to leave. Rubbing his eyes, he had to figure out his next move. He needed food. Leaning over, Burt looked under the bathroom door. The tiles were warm where he had been seated. Burt could see nothing. The monster was gone. “Dumb bastards,” he muttered, chuckling. “Dumb bastards.” Burt got to his feet and walked to the sink. Turning on the faucet, he scooped several handfuls of water into his mouth. He tried to recover. He was still hungry, still low energy. But he had to get to the office for some food. He unlocked the door. He opened it. Burt felt he could just walk out without fear. But he took his time anyway. It was a good thing he took his time, too, because as he stepped out, two of the cannibals were standing beside the door, waiting for him to emerge. “Shit!” he shouted, slamming the door shut again. He twisted the lock in the knob again before the two started banging against the door again. They’re smart, he thought to himself. “Good God,” he whispered. “Good God almighty. The sonsabitches were waiting for me.” Burt fell to his ass again. Unless someone came by soon, he was trapped. What a wonderful world, he thought to himself, chuckling. After six minutes or so, the pounding at the door stopped. After six minutes or so after that, Burt passed out. After six minutes or so after that, Burt had visions of Max, left alone on the highway. Somewhere in the layers of his visions, Louie Armstrong was singing. = = = = = =
BANG BANG BANG
“See? I told you someone was inside.” “But he’s already dead. What are you doing? Get away from him.” “Maybe… maybe he’s not…
“Shit! He’s alive…”
8-15-11SATXIn the republic of Texas“Pigs on the Wing, pt. 2”ZombieBloodFights.com
FOR THE REST OF THE STORY, CLICK ON THE WE'RE ALIVE WEBSITE, GO TO 'LISTEN', AND CLICK ON 'CHAPTER 3 - THE NEW ARRIVALS' PART 2 OF 3, 4 min., 20 second mark.
BOWIE VALERIANO IBARRA is an artist living in Texas. He enjoys zombie movies, combat sports, and action/adventure movies. His first book, the zombie horror classic “Down the Road” was picked up by Simon and Schuester in conjunction with Permuted Press.
Bowie earned an Associate in Art from Bee County College, a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Acting and a Masters of Theatre History from Texas State University.
You can learn more about Bowie, his body of written works, watch exclusive videos, and network with him at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.com.
http://www.zombiebloodfights.com
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
11. LOCKED, LOADED, AND LOCKED IN
When Burt finally arrived at the sidewalk just across the street from the store, he sighed in frustrated disappointment. It was worse than he thought. Black puffs of smoke were billowing out of one of the windows of ‘Locked and Loaded’. Fire, he thought. “Dammit,” he groaned. Though Burt wanted to run to the building, he knew he had to take a moment to recover. He had dashed down the sidewalk amid the chaos of the city for five city blocks. He had avoided conflicts, mostly adults asking for help. He never changed that thought that they were completely capable of defending themselves. It was a cruel call to deny people help. But this wasn’t about being courteous anymore. Not like many people in the US were courteous anymore. Courtesy goes hand in hand with civilization. Watching the fistfights, desperation, and bloody violence on his run was proof enough to Burt that civility in the City of Montebello was temporarily out of service. The episode at the apartment with the children was proof enough for Burt. This world had not time for civility. It was about survival.
Burt had a splitting headache. He was very tired, and was feeling like his eyes were trying to close. His vision was blurring. Leaning against a building, Burt caught his breath. “C’mon, man,” he said to himself. “Get moving!” Burt took off across the street. As dangerous as it was, he moved through the slow and go traffic with precision. He was surprised the streets weren’t completely choked with cars, but imagined this section of the city was still maneuverable while other parts weren’t. Jumping over the last vehicle, he tumbled off the hood and fell to the sidewalk. He groaned in pain, looking up at his store and all the people in it as the driver of the car he just tumbled over yelled, “Hey, fuck you, man!” Anger flooded Burt’s heart. But the anger was not against the driver who just insulted him. It was for the people looting the store. He was no killer. But he was going to make a statement that he would do just that if needed. “Get away from my store!” he shouted. The people standing around his store turned to him and laughed. Burt stood up and unslung his M-16. He held it in front of him. A side of him still wanted to unload on the people. Plug every single one of them. Put them away like a Chicago gangster with a Tommy Gun. These were the same idiots he despised, the same ones that started this madness. These crazy people who were going so far as to eat each other. What kind of human does that? These people needed to be stopped, exterminated like vermin to never infest the city with doom like they did today. But who was he to decide who lived and died? He was no god. He was just a man with a goal. There was another method of achieving his goal that was only moments away from being in his hands. He aimed the machine gun just over the heads of the looters and opened fire. The looters scattered like roaches spooked by the sudden illumination of lights in a room. Burt fired short bursts, advancing to the store. Hot shells raced from the rifle onto the pavement, singing the song of a hellborne wind chime. Some people had pistols of their own. Maybe even stolen from the store. They shot at Burt, but were completely missing their target because they were running and shooting wild. As he finished every round in the magazine, he moved to the front door. The people had scattered to Burt’s superior firepower. Laying by the door were two corpses. Both had parts of their bodies dismembered. Their stomachs had been torn open. Their entrails lay in pieces all around the body. Burt didn’t realize the bodies were there until he reached the door and he stepped in the pool of blood their bodies had spit out onto the pavement. He coughed in disgust. Burt ducked his head just under the plume of smoke and walked into the store. Broken glass from the front door crunched under his feet. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew it was not going to be good. The smoke shrouded the store in mystery. Burt could feel the fire nearby, and immediately moved to where the fire extinguisher had been installed. As he cleared the smoke, he was shocked at what he saw. The pillaging was exactly as disastrous as he’d imagined.
Grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall, he turned it on the flames. It wasn’t long before the chemical cold of the extinguisher put out the small fires, reducing them to smoky piles of rubble.Near the front door, Burt could hear yet another gathering of troublemakers. He could see their shadows through the smoke, and hear their chatting. “Get the hell out of my shop, you bastards!” he shouted. The stout old man opened fire with precision just over the heads of the looters, quickly making them scatter like pigeons startled at a downtown park. Two of them opened fire with pistols as they ran, making Burt dive behind a wooden case that was now lined with broken glass where pistols used to lie in quiet solitude. “You just fucked up, old man,” shouted a voice. “Just walk away,” said Burt with an exhausted smile. Lord Humungous. “I’ll spare your life. Just walk away.” “Fuck you, old man,” shouted the thug. The crunching of glass below the adversary’s feet signaled to Burt that the enemy was making a move. Burt listened closely to the direction he estimated the sound was coming from. But he could not get a bead on it. He was too tired to concentrate. I’ll be goddamned, thought the old man to himself. Just overwhelm him, thought Burt to himself. Overwhelm him with firepower. Reloading the M-16, Burt stood up and immediately opened fire. The boy ducked and jumped out of the way, crying out like a little girl. Burt did not let up. He emptied the M-16 on his own store, making the kid scramble in fear back to the front door. When the M-16 ran out of ammo, he immediately pulled out his pistol and opened fire. The time between weapons gave the kid a chance to scurry out the door like a scalded dog, running in fear and respect. “Goddamn right,” muttered Burt. But the smoke, exertion, and hunger was taking its toll. The room was pillaged. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. But he had one more thing to check. Shuffling in an exhausted daze to one of his first safes, he realized it wasn’t as safe as he thought.“All gone,” he said, looking inside and sighing. “All gone.” The safe had been forced open. It wasn’t a job for amateurs. Few knew about the safe. The only ones who did, who were also capable of opening it, were some of his regular customers. From that list, a modest few had the tools and the talent to pull it off. He was disappointed, if his theory was correct. He couldn’t believe they would do that to him. To the store. To Shirley. There was one safe, though, that only he knew about. Shirley knew about it, too. It was hersafe, after all. Stumbling, Burt hoped against hope that it was unharmed, unopened. Burt breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived and saw it was completely untouched. “Shirley,” he whispered. “You’re safe.” Inside the safe was ‘Shirley’, her favorite gun: a Desert Eagle. Dropping the fire extinguisher to the floor, Burt leaned against the wall in complete exhaustion. He had reached the store. And though he would have to take out an insurance claim on the entire business, his prized possession in the safe, the one thing that could never be replaced by insurance money, was safe. There was no sense staying in the store now. It was completely ransacked, vulnerable to anyone and everyone who dared enter. The store could be fixed, repaired. And her gun was still safe. Burt was exhausted. Totally spent. Cashed. He needed food. Water. There might still be both in his office in the back. He could go get it. But all he wanted to do for the moment was rest. He won. He got what he wanted. Now it was his body’s turn to reward itself. First, with rest. He leaned against a wall and let it support his body as he slid down and sat on the floor. His eyelids fell across his eyes. No part of his body wanted to move. Every part of his body wanted to rest. Eyes closed, he could still hear the chaos outside.Sirens.Gunshots.Cries for help.Cries of terror.Cries of anguish.A dog barking.Car wreck.More sirens.Muffled shouts.Gunfire. Scattered gunfire. Then, the crunching of glass. Shuffling feet from the smoky front room with the muttering of yet another set of opportunists. “Get out of my store,” shouted Burt, firing three rounds from his pistol into the air. The feet shuffled back out of the store. Shouts of fearful obscenities faded away as the thieves took off. Burt hardly opened his eyes. He couldn’t. It was as if they were weighed down. He was completely exhausted. His head throbbed with pain. He needed the nap, and let the sounds of pandemonium sing its lullaby to him yet again.And again, sirens.Gunshots.Cries for help.Cries of terror.Cries of anguish.A dog barking.Car wreck.More sirens.Muffled shouts.Gunfire. Scattered gunfire. Then, the crunching of glass again, a slow crunching of glass from the smoky front room. There was no muttering of opportunists, only the silence of mystery. “Get out of my store!” shouted Burt. The feet stopped moving. Silence. There was no running like before. So Burt fired the last three rounds into the air again. Again, silence. Only the sounds of the nightmare city outside could be heard. Burt’s lullaby. “I said get out!” shouted Burt again, trying to force his eyes open. He needed to stand, but his body had shut down. Silence again. The crunching stopped, but the sound of a person fleeing through the glass was, once again, not heard. There was something different about the silence. It reminded him of what a big cat walking through a wilderness, preparing to pounce must be like. Silent to find the direction of its prey. Then, the crunching of glass started again.Burt wanted to shout again. But he stopped himself. Something about the moment reminded him of playing ‘Marco Polo’ back at the public pool in Sacramento with his cousins. With eyes closed, he would shout, ‘Marco’, to which his cousins and friends would reply, ‘Polo’. He would try to swim to their voices. Today, the pool was ‘Locked and Loaded’. The water was the smoke. His cousins were strangers in his store. This was suddenly no game. He was being hunted.Burt no longer had ammo. He assumed he wouldn’t need so much for the run. He also took for granted he could get some here at the store. But it was not to be. “Dammit,” he whispered. He had no energy to fight. He needed to hide. Then, from the front room, a pair of legs came into view. It’s upper body was shrouded in smoke, walking in the haze as if unaffected. “What the hell?” whispered Burt. Then, the figure emerged from the smoke. Its face was pale. Its skin, clammy. Its mouth and hands were stained in blood. It wore a white lab coat, and must have been from the nearby scientific facility. “The cannibals,” whispered Burt. “Shit.” Burt had to move. He was in no shape to fight. A bathroom was just a few feet away to his right. Burt stood up slowly, leaning against the wall for support as he moved to the room. He did not look back as he heard the person vocalize a peculiar but frightening groan. “Shit,” Burt muttered, stumbling towards the door. He moved against it, hoping it was open. It was not. It gave the ghoul enough time to reach him. “No!” shouted Burt, shoving the bloody figure away from him. The shove gave Burt just enough time to open the door and fall in the restroom. Dazed, Burt looked up. The cannibal was picking itself off the ground, ready to pounce. Burt lunged with all his might to the door, slamming it shut in the face of the creature like a door knock from an insurance salesman. The beast beat at the door as Burt twisted the lock in the gilded knob. He slid down the door, falling to his ass. This was as far as he was going to go. With the thing outside his door, he was under siege with nothing to fight back with. “I can wait, you bastard,” whispered Burt defiantly. Within several minutes, the pounding stopped. Several minutes after that, Burt fell asleep again. The monster didn’t get him. But his diabetes did.Burt didn’t know how long he had rested, but he knew it had to be long enough for that thing to leave. Rubbing his eyes, he had to figure out his next move. He needed food. Leaning over, Burt looked under the bathroom door. The tiles were warm where he had been seated. Burt could see nothing. The monster was gone. “Dumb bastards,” he muttered, chuckling. “Dumb bastards.” Burt got to his feet and walked to the sink. Turning on the faucet, he scooped several handfuls of water into his mouth. He tried to recover. He was still hungry, still low energy. But he had to get to the office for some food. He unlocked the door. He opened it. Burt felt he could just walk out without fear. But he took his time anyway. It was a good thing he took his time, too, because as he stepped out, two of the cannibals were standing beside the door, waiting for him to emerge. “Shit!” he shouted, slamming the door shut again. He twisted the lock in the knob again before the two started banging against the door again. They’re smart, he thought to himself. “Good God,” he whispered. “Good God almighty. The sonsabitches were waiting for me.” Burt fell to his ass again. Unless someone came by soon, he was trapped. What a wonderful world, he thought to himself, chuckling. After six minutes or so, the pounding at the door stopped. After six minutes or so after that, Burt passed out. After six minutes or so after that, Burt had visions of Max, left alone on the highway. Somewhere in the layers of his visions, Louie Armstrong was singing. = = = = = =
BANG BANG BANG
“See? I told you someone was inside.” “But he’s already dead. What are you doing? Get away from him.” “Maybe… maybe he’s not…
“Shit! He’s alive…”
8-15-11SATXIn the republic of Texas“Pigs on the Wing, pt. 2”ZombieBloodFights.com
FOR THE REST OF THE STORY, CLICK ON THE WE'RE ALIVE WEBSITE, GO TO 'LISTEN', AND CLICK ON 'CHAPTER 3 - THE NEW ARRIVALS' PART 2 OF 3, 4 min., 20 second mark.
BOWIE VALERIANO IBARRA is an artist living in Texas. He enjoys zombie movies, combat sports, and action/adventure movies. His first book, the zombie horror classic “Down the Road” was picked up by Simon and Schuester in conjunction with Permuted Press.
Bowie earned an Associate in Art from Bee County College, a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Acting and a Masters of Theatre History from Texas State University.
You can learn more about Bowie, his body of written works, watch exclusive videos, and network with him at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.com.
http://www.zombiebloodfights.com
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
December 11, 2015
ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Ch. 10 - Into the Eye of the Storm
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
10. INTO THE EYE OF THE STORM
As Burt ran deeper into the madness, things were getting much, much rowdier. He had never seen so many fistfights in his life. It was as if the city itself was the source of the problem. The fiery cars and frightened people were the manifestation of the metaphorical spell cast on the city, sending everyone and everything into complete and total pandemonium.Not since the boy he had knocked out with his big fists and the thugs demanding his weapons had anyone challenged him. In spite of his sputtering energy, his knife, firearms, and size found people actually moving away from him. It was pretty obvious to the people around him that it would not be worth messing around with him for anything. The juice would not be worth the squeeze.That kind of social power, even in the midst of the chaos, put him in a different position. Though he walked around as a kind of brute capable of swift and brutal offense, he also had the capacity to defend. But he was not about to grant that power for any grown adults who were more than capable of defending themselves.The problem was seeing children put in this chaotic situation.Burt watched a trio of older teens brutalizing a kid who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. He already passed up a lot of bad situations, but he couldn’t pass this up.Burt dashed to the group. He wound back his fist and smashed the nearest one square in the mouth, knocking the boy against a nearby wall and out cold. Burt slashed toward the next closest adversary with his knife, cutting the boys arm. He could have easily killed the kid, but that was not his goal. He had the power, self-control, and was magnanimous enough to give the kids a choice. He had to set examples first.“Fuck!” shouted the third boy, turning and running. The cut boy was too shocked to say anything. He just cried out, clasping a hand over the wound and took off. The boy who was KO’d lay face first on the pavement. A small patch of blood was forming on the pavement near his nose.“Get up, son,” said Burt to the young boy, offering a hand that was gladly accepted. The boy was weeping. He was doing his best not to completely break down.Burt looked around, anxious. He needed to get to the store. But he’d committed to helping the boy now, so he had to finish the job and hope there were no more complications. He was running out of energy and needed to rest. The added stress wasn’t helping.“What’s your name, son?” groaned Burt.Through whimpers, the boy said, “Ronnie.”“Where are your parents, Ronnie?”“In that apartment complex,” he said, pointing to a building just down the street.As he pointed, he couldn’t help but notice blood pouring out of a wound on his arm. It was a bite.“C’mere, son,” said Burt, pulling him close to him and away from the madness. Burt reached down and ripped a piece of t-shirt off of the poleaxed thug. He had nothing to clean the wound with, so he just wrapped the wound with the shirt.“Hold my hand, Ronnie. And don’t let go,” said Burt. The duo started running to the apartment complex.A pawn shop was being looted. Burt couldn’t help but imagine (know!?) his own store, Shirley’s store, was suffering the same fate. He had to hurry and deliver this kid and get back to his goal. They weaved through the bevy of thieves running out with televisions, DVD players, even movies.A large crowd was gathered on the sidewalk. They all seemed to be looking at something on the sidewalk.As the duo edged closer to the group, they could hear general chatter.“That’s disgusting.”“… killed that mother fucker.”“What the fuck?”“Damn. That’s all messed up.”“He ate him?”“Yep.”Burt could see brief glimpses between the crowd of two bodies lying on the sidewalk. One was a bloody carcass torn open at the stomach. Blood entrails had spilled out around the body.Beside the body was yet another. This body was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. Its head had been smashed to a pulp, unrecognizable as even a human head. Brain, bone, and blood sat in a puddle by its remains.“Don’t look, Ronnie,” said Burt, gagging.Ronnie only needed a glimpse to comply as they passed the people. The sight charged Ronnie with fear that Burt could feel when the boy grasped his hand even harder.As they passed the group, a man ran past them. He was holding his arm. Blood was seeping from under his hand and fingers. The man was followed by a group of youths with bats and lead pipes. They knocked Ronnie out of Burt’s grip, but ran past them.
Burt helped the boy back up. They watched in horror as the guy was cornered and savagely beaten.“C’mon, Ronnie,” said Burt. They were only a few yards away from the apartment building. But more to the point, Burt was only a few blocks away from ‘Locked and Loaded’.They entered the lobby to the complex and were greeted with more mayhem. People ran to and fro. A young Asian child stood frozen in fear and crying amid the crowd. Another two bodies lay with completely smashed skulls up against the wall.“At the end of the hall,” said Ronnie. Burt could tell the boy’s spirits had been lifted. There was now an air of hope in the little boy’s voice as they made their way through the crowd. It gave Burt hope that this run was not futile in spite of the boys growing pale complexion.Before long, they were at the door. Ronnie began to knock furiously.“Mom! Dad! It’s me!”The door was unlocked and thrown open to the grateful faces of his mother and father.“Ronnie!” shouted his mother with tears of joy shooting out of her eyes like a leaky pipe.Ronnie’s father offered a hand to Burt. “Did you help him?” he asked.“Yes,” said Burt. “You need to look at his arm, though.”The mother immediately checked the boy. “Oh, God,” she said, but regained her composure. “It’s no problem. We can take care of it,” she said, taking him to a kitchen just a few feet away from the door.“Thank you, sir,” said the man. “You can come in with us if you’d like,” he offered.“No, thank you. I’ve got to check on my store,” said Burt.The mom grimaced in the kitchen, where she was already treating the boy’s wound. “News has nothing but bad news. So good luck,” she said.“Thanks,” said Burt, turning to leave.“Thank you, sir,” shouted the lady. Burt just waved and nodded as the door closed.Burt moved only a few more paces down the hallway when he began to feel dizzy again. He eased himself against the wall to take a moment to catch his breath. His vision was blurring.Reaching into his pocket, he put the last of the crackers into his mouth. A water fountain nearby helped him wash it down.Turning and looking at the lobby, it was a maelstrom of panic. People dashed all about. People were yelling. There was yet another vicious fight in a corner. The small Asian child still stood alone, frozen in fear and crying. That was before a blonde man picked up the boy and dashed to a nearby door. The man threw it open and went in, the child crying in terror.It took a moment for Burt to absorb what just happened. All he wanted to do was leave. He was running out of energy, and he still needed to get to the shop. Who knows what it was going to be like there. But he couldn’t. The moment he witnessed was just too strange. Too creepy. Too wrong.Complications,thought Burt. He needed to investigate.He walked to a nearby lobby water fountain and splashed his face with water. Then he walked to the door and knocked. “Hello in there,” he shouted.“Get away from my door,” he heard the man shout. The boy was still crying.Burt didn’t know what to say, and contemplated walking away again. But he’d already commited to action, like with Ronnie. His head ached. His eyes burned. You’ve got to finish this now, he thought.“I just need to know… if the kid’s okay.”What the hell kind of question was that? he thought to himself.The door chain-lock rattled against the wooden barrier and the door opened.“What do you want?” shouted the man.“I just…”Burt couldn’t finish the statement. Behind the man, he saw the small boy tied by a belt to a small chair. He was weeping in fear. It was a very different fear than in the hallway. This was a fear without hope.There was no need for words anymore. With a burst of adrenaline, Burt rammed the door open with his shoulder. The movement knocked the man back. Burt was in the room.The man swung at Burt. Like an old machine being kicked back to life, Burt caught the wild and desperate punch under his arm. Then, with a sweep of the blonde’s leg, Burt Judo-tossed the man to the ground, just like Lombardo had taught him years ago.Burt immediately pulled his sidearms and pointed them at the man. He had the blonde dead to rights. The man froze in fear on the floor.“What the hell’s going on here?” asked Burt.“Listen,” said the man, weeping like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing. “Please, just… please.”“Johnny,” came a voice from the door. Burt and the man turned to look.At the door was an Asian woman. She stood in horror at the door, looking at the scene, stunned.“Is that your child?” asked Burt.“Yes,” she replied. “What’s going on?”“Is this the boys father?” asked Burt, glaring at the man. He already knew the answer, but needed confirmation.“No,” she replied.Burt waved for her to untie her child. “This guy grabbed your kid out of the hallway.”“What?” she cried, unbuckling the belt to the grateful embrace of her child.“Please,” begged the man. “Please.”Burt groaned. Crisis averted. He had to make his move. This was now out of his hands. He had somewhere to be. This had to be sorted out now between these two people.So Burt washed his hands of the situation.“I’m not the guy you need to be talking to, dirtbag,” he said, offering one of his pistols to the woman. “You two need to sort this out.”The woman took the pistol. Her face had melted into the perfect picture of murderous maternal rage.Burt stepped out of the room.As Burt walked away from the apartment, he could hear the man cry out before three gunshots rang through the air. It was followed by the terrified cry of the child. Some people who did hear it were startled, but it was only a symptom of the sickness that was enveloping the city in terror. They all had heard gunshots throughout the day. It was now commonplace, nothing new.They all had places to be.So did Burt.===============
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
10. INTO THE EYE OF THE STORM
As Burt ran deeper into the madness, things were getting much, much rowdier. He had never seen so many fistfights in his life. It was as if the city itself was the source of the problem. The fiery cars and frightened people were the manifestation of the metaphorical spell cast on the city, sending everyone and everything into complete and total pandemonium.Not since the boy he had knocked out with his big fists and the thugs demanding his weapons had anyone challenged him. In spite of his sputtering energy, his knife, firearms, and size found people actually moving away from him. It was pretty obvious to the people around him that it would not be worth messing around with him for anything. The juice would not be worth the squeeze.That kind of social power, even in the midst of the chaos, put him in a different position. Though he walked around as a kind of brute capable of swift and brutal offense, he also had the capacity to defend. But he was not about to grant that power for any grown adults who were more than capable of defending themselves.The problem was seeing children put in this chaotic situation.Burt watched a trio of older teens brutalizing a kid who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. He already passed up a lot of bad situations, but he couldn’t pass this up.Burt dashed to the group. He wound back his fist and smashed the nearest one square in the mouth, knocking the boy against a nearby wall and out cold. Burt slashed toward the next closest adversary with his knife, cutting the boys arm. He could have easily killed the kid, but that was not his goal. He had the power, self-control, and was magnanimous enough to give the kids a choice. He had to set examples first.“Fuck!” shouted the third boy, turning and running. The cut boy was too shocked to say anything. He just cried out, clasping a hand over the wound and took off. The boy who was KO’d lay face first on the pavement. A small patch of blood was forming on the pavement near his nose.“Get up, son,” said Burt to the young boy, offering a hand that was gladly accepted. The boy was weeping. He was doing his best not to completely break down.Burt looked around, anxious. He needed to get to the store. But he’d committed to helping the boy now, so he had to finish the job and hope there were no more complications. He was running out of energy and needed to rest. The added stress wasn’t helping.“What’s your name, son?” groaned Burt.Through whimpers, the boy said, “Ronnie.”“Where are your parents, Ronnie?”“In that apartment complex,” he said, pointing to a building just down the street.As he pointed, he couldn’t help but notice blood pouring out of a wound on his arm. It was a bite.“C’mere, son,” said Burt, pulling him close to him and away from the madness. Burt reached down and ripped a piece of t-shirt off of the poleaxed thug. He had nothing to clean the wound with, so he just wrapped the wound with the shirt.“Hold my hand, Ronnie. And don’t let go,” said Burt. The duo started running to the apartment complex.A pawn shop was being looted. Burt couldn’t help but imagine (know!?) his own store, Shirley’s store, was suffering the same fate. He had to hurry and deliver this kid and get back to his goal. They weaved through the bevy of thieves running out with televisions, DVD players, even movies.A large crowd was gathered on the sidewalk. They all seemed to be looking at something on the sidewalk.As the duo edged closer to the group, they could hear general chatter.“That’s disgusting.”“… killed that mother fucker.”“What the fuck?”“Damn. That’s all messed up.”“He ate him?”“Yep.”Burt could see brief glimpses between the crowd of two bodies lying on the sidewalk. One was a bloody carcass torn open at the stomach. Blood entrails had spilled out around the body.Beside the body was yet another. This body was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. Its head had been smashed to a pulp, unrecognizable as even a human head. Brain, bone, and blood sat in a puddle by its remains.“Don’t look, Ronnie,” said Burt, gagging.Ronnie only needed a glimpse to comply as they passed the people. The sight charged Ronnie with fear that Burt could feel when the boy grasped his hand even harder.As they passed the group, a man ran past them. He was holding his arm. Blood was seeping from under his hand and fingers. The man was followed by a group of youths with bats and lead pipes. They knocked Ronnie out of Burt’s grip, but ran past them.
Burt helped the boy back up. They watched in horror as the guy was cornered and savagely beaten.“C’mon, Ronnie,” said Burt. They were only a few yards away from the apartment building. But more to the point, Burt was only a few blocks away from ‘Locked and Loaded’.They entered the lobby to the complex and were greeted with more mayhem. People ran to and fro. A young Asian child stood frozen in fear and crying amid the crowd. Another two bodies lay with completely smashed skulls up against the wall.“At the end of the hall,” said Ronnie. Burt could tell the boy’s spirits had been lifted. There was now an air of hope in the little boy’s voice as they made their way through the crowd. It gave Burt hope that this run was not futile in spite of the boys growing pale complexion.Before long, they were at the door. Ronnie began to knock furiously.“Mom! Dad! It’s me!”The door was unlocked and thrown open to the grateful faces of his mother and father.“Ronnie!” shouted his mother with tears of joy shooting out of her eyes like a leaky pipe.Ronnie’s father offered a hand to Burt. “Did you help him?” he asked.“Yes,” said Burt. “You need to look at his arm, though.”The mother immediately checked the boy. “Oh, God,” she said, but regained her composure. “It’s no problem. We can take care of it,” she said, taking him to a kitchen just a few feet away from the door.“Thank you, sir,” said the man. “You can come in with us if you’d like,” he offered.“No, thank you. I’ve got to check on my store,” said Burt.The mom grimaced in the kitchen, where she was already treating the boy’s wound. “News has nothing but bad news. So good luck,” she said.“Thanks,” said Burt, turning to leave.“Thank you, sir,” shouted the lady. Burt just waved and nodded as the door closed.Burt moved only a few more paces down the hallway when he began to feel dizzy again. He eased himself against the wall to take a moment to catch his breath. His vision was blurring.Reaching into his pocket, he put the last of the crackers into his mouth. A water fountain nearby helped him wash it down.Turning and looking at the lobby, it was a maelstrom of panic. People dashed all about. People were yelling. There was yet another vicious fight in a corner. The small Asian child still stood alone, frozen in fear and crying. That was before a blonde man picked up the boy and dashed to a nearby door. The man threw it open and went in, the child crying in terror.It took a moment for Burt to absorb what just happened. All he wanted to do was leave. He was running out of energy, and he still needed to get to the shop. Who knows what it was going to be like there. But he couldn’t. The moment he witnessed was just too strange. Too creepy. Too wrong.Complications,thought Burt. He needed to investigate.He walked to a nearby lobby water fountain and splashed his face with water. Then he walked to the door and knocked. “Hello in there,” he shouted.“Get away from my door,” he heard the man shout. The boy was still crying.Burt didn’t know what to say, and contemplated walking away again. But he’d already commited to action, like with Ronnie. His head ached. His eyes burned. You’ve got to finish this now, he thought.“I just need to know… if the kid’s okay.”What the hell kind of question was that? he thought to himself.The door chain-lock rattled against the wooden barrier and the door opened.“What do you want?” shouted the man.“I just…”Burt couldn’t finish the statement. Behind the man, he saw the small boy tied by a belt to a small chair. He was weeping in fear. It was a very different fear than in the hallway. This was a fear without hope.There was no need for words anymore. With a burst of adrenaline, Burt rammed the door open with his shoulder. The movement knocked the man back. Burt was in the room.The man swung at Burt. Like an old machine being kicked back to life, Burt caught the wild and desperate punch under his arm. Then, with a sweep of the blonde’s leg, Burt Judo-tossed the man to the ground, just like Lombardo had taught him years ago.Burt immediately pulled his sidearms and pointed them at the man. He had the blonde dead to rights. The man froze in fear on the floor.“What the hell’s going on here?” asked Burt.“Listen,” said the man, weeping like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing. “Please, just… please.”“Johnny,” came a voice from the door. Burt and the man turned to look.At the door was an Asian woman. She stood in horror at the door, looking at the scene, stunned.“Is that your child?” asked Burt.“Yes,” she replied. “What’s going on?”“Is this the boys father?” asked Burt, glaring at the man. He already knew the answer, but needed confirmation.“No,” she replied.Burt waved for her to untie her child. “This guy grabbed your kid out of the hallway.”“What?” she cried, unbuckling the belt to the grateful embrace of her child.“Please,” begged the man. “Please.”Burt groaned. Crisis averted. He had to make his move. This was now out of his hands. He had somewhere to be. This had to be sorted out now between these two people.So Burt washed his hands of the situation.“I’m not the guy you need to be talking to, dirtbag,” he said, offering one of his pistols to the woman. “You two need to sort this out.”The woman took the pistol. Her face had melted into the perfect picture of murderous maternal rage.Burt stepped out of the room.As Burt walked away from the apartment, he could hear the man cry out before three gunshots rang through the air. It was followed by the terrified cry of the child. Some people who did hear it were startled, but it was only a symptom of the sickness that was enveloping the city in terror. They all had heard gunshots throughout the day. It was now commonplace, nothing new.They all had places to be.So did Burt.===============FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
December 10, 2015
ZOMBIES: "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Ch. 9 - Burt Makes His Run
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
9. BURT MAKES HIS RUN
With his soul on fire, his M-16 slung over a shoulder, pistols on his hip, and his KA-BAR concealed against his hand and arm, Burt left his apartment. Locking up his home, he could feel the tension of the city wash over him. He could hear television sets behind closed doors rattling off the news he was just watching. Even muffled, he could still hear the urgency in the voices.Cracks of gunfire danced in the air. Burt could identify pistols and sub-machine guns. Shouts, cries, and screams sang a song of terror accompanied by the music of the firearms.There was no doubt about it. Los Angeles county had fallen into the depths of chaos. Burt sighed. It was a sad and familiar sound that danced over the cityscape, one he hadn’t heard in years.It was the sound of a battlefield.Before Burt could make his way down the stairs to his vehicle, a hand grabbed his jacket sleeve. It took Burt by surprise. His training took over as he twisted his hand away. He shoved the attacker away and positioned his knife to jab once he identified his attacker.“Please, don’t hurt me,” shouted the lady with fear. She held up her hands. Sweat laced her brow, making some of her middle-aged blonde hair stick to her forehead. “I need your help.”Good God almighty, thought Burt to himself. Jerkoffs and idiots of the riots he could deal with. These so-called cannibals or risen dead? He’ll have to wait and see for himself.But desperate people, people outside of the chaos looking for help? This would be tough.“Please. My boyfriend…one of those people bit him. He’s sick. I need your help.”She needs my gun, Burt thought to himself, watching her eyes fall to his sidearms. Stay focused, Burt, he said to himself.“I can’t help you, lady. I’m sorry,” he said, moving down the stairs to his car.The lady made a desperate move, grabbing his coat.“Please! Help me!”Burt snatched her hand away quickly again and shoved her away. Burt couldn’t believe how desperate she was, having already threatened her with the knife. He had enough sense not to stab her, even though his conditioned impulse was there. This didn’t need to escalate. The lady needed to get the message.“I said no, lady!” shouted Burt. “Now get the hell away from me!”Suddenly, three flights above them, something snarled with primal anger. They both looked up to see what appeared to be a drunken man. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and he looked at Burt with bizarre anger.“Jimmy,” shouted the lady. “No!”The woman immediately rose to her feet, running up the stairs.Burt wanted no part of the domestic dispute and ran down the stairs to the parking lot.Clearing the apartment building, he was able to look out on the city. Plumes of smoke drifted into the sky like toxic smoke from the mouth of a dying dragon. The same symphony of mayhem Burt heard as he left his apartment beat its steady rhythm. The gunshots and shouts of terror were the classical music of human-made pandemonium. A variation on a theme of conflict played throughout the course of human existence, as conducted by Toscanini, Solti, Williams, or even James Levine or Leonard Bernstein. The sound and the fury.Dashing to his car, he could feel the adrenaline pushing him forward. It was providing energy he was going to need.As he got to his car, he looked out toward the street. It was packed with cars honking in a cacophony of fearful frustration.“I’ll never get out of here,” Burt groaned. Standing still in a line of cars would also leave him vulnerable to attack or carjacking.“Goddammit,” he groaned.A set of hands grabbed him by the shoulder.Burt growled, knocking the hands away and shouting, “Lady! I already told you…”But when he turned around, it wasn’t the lady. It was a man. But it wasn’t any ordinary man. This man had thick red slime around his mouth that Burt could only deduce was congealing blood.“Shit!” he shouted as it grabbed him again, opening its mouth wide for a bite. It’s one of them.The monster shoved Burt into his own car, pushing him down on the hood. It snarled as it tried to bite him.Burt was strong enough to hold the monster off with one hand while stabbing it several times with its knife. Blood dripped from its wounds and it backed off against an adjacent car.Burt drew his M-16 when he heard a blast. The monster’s head burst, splashing all over Burt and the cars.“Jesus Christ!” shouted Burt. He watched the executed attacker fall to the ground.“I tried to tell you,” said a voice. Burt turned around to see Guerra, brandishing the shotgun he had sold him. “Jesus, Mike,” said Burt. “You just killed the guy.”“He attacked you.”“Was that one of those…”“Cannibals? I’m pretty sure it was.”Burt looked back at the body. It’s arm was quivering as blood poured out of its wounded head.Burt couldn’t take it. He ran to a bush by the apartment complex and threw up. It was more of a dry heave as he had hardly eaten.“You’re going to have fun today,” said Mike.“Fuck you, Guerra,” said Burt, pulling himself together. “What the hell are you doing out here?”“Corner store,” he said, holding up bag filled with sodas. “We needed something to drink.”“No water?”“There was water. But I figured I should grab the RC while it was still on the shelves.”Idiot, thought Burt. “Good one,” said Burt.“Where are you going?” asked Guerra.“Locked and Loaded.”“Good luck with that. They’ve been looting that area for the past hour.” Burt groaned. “Thanks for the intel.” “I’m going back up to the apartment. Come by if you make it back,” said Guerra running off. Burt turned around and looked at the street again. It was as if the street found a way to get more congested between the time he was looking at it up to now. “Here goes nothing,” he said, trotting toward the street. It was only several city blocks away, but considering the danger in the streets, it might as well have been in Temecula or Fresno. But his drive was still unaffected. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to ‘Locked and Loaded’. From behind a car, a teenager jumped out at Burt, pointing a gun at him. “Drop the knife, old man!” he shouted, “and give me your shit!” Not again, he thought to himself. “You need to take a minute, kid,” he said, raising his hands. “Do you see what’s going on out there?” The boy was about to get a surprise. He was just a boy. Burt had put himself in a game of life and death on the streets. But unlike Guerra, he didn’t want blood on his hands. Especially with an idiot kid he could handle. “I’ll shot you in the face, motherfu…” All Burt heard was Lombardo’s voice saying one of the most basic fundamentals of hand to hand combat: Commit. And he did. Burt grabbed the barrel of the pistol and moved it away from his face, out of the line of fire with only a move of a few inches. Simultaneously, he popped the boy in the face multiple times. Burt’s massive fists turned the boy’s nose and mouth to mush. The second punch had already knocked him out. And when the back of the boy’s head hit the pavement, his arms and legs froze in an awkward and stiff position. He looked like a red-headed Ken doll that had been discarded by a child. Burt picked himself off the ground, checking the requisitioned weapon for ammunition. It was empty. “Stupid child,” he muttered, discarding the weapon. The boy was puffing with an awkward breath, still stuck in the awkward pose as Burt dashed off, leaving the kid behind. As Burt turned a corner, the boy was attacked by one of the ghastly cannibals as he lay on the ground, helpless. Though he was completely healthy and alive, he was still paralyzed by the concussion. The infected monster grabbed his still-stiff arm and bit. The pain made the boy respond, but only with a grunt. He began to pant, perhaps in a seizure. The ghoul simply chewed on the chunk as the boy bled from the now-shaking arm. The road to ‘Locked and Loaded’ was littered with catastrophe. Cars stood idle. Cars wrecked. Cars burning. The drivers burned beyond recognition, black silhouettes of humans who had been alive, perhaps only minutes before. People were running and shouting at each other. People were fighting each other. It was every man for himself on the streets of Montebello. The same fearful desperation that hid behind apartment doors was now unleashed on the city streets. Burt made it to a street corner when he heard a shout. “Hey! Gimmie that gun, mother fucker!” Burt turned to see a gang of four street thugs race at him with knives drawn. “Goddammit,” thought Burt. His knife was drawn, but he needed something more. His M-16 would mow them down, but there were so many others who could be hit by his fire. He didn’t want to do it, but it was his only choice. Before he could unsling his M-16, gunshots were fired. They were flying from behind him. Burt fell to the ground, unhurt, and scrambled for cover behind a city trash can.
Burt watched as two of the gang thugs were hit, falling to the ground, wounded. The other gang members ran, or just dove for cover as Burt heard another voice. “Hey, old man! Let’s get out of here!” Burt looked up to see a man in a Navy blue F-350 waving him in. “C’mon, guy,” said the man, firing more rounds at the gang. Burt knew he could not trust the man at this point, but the guy had wheels. He could still get him out of the tight spot, and maybe drive him to the shop. Slowly getting up, Burt ran to the truck after unholstering one of his pistols. If this guy was going to blast him, he would be ready with an answer of his own. Burt noticed his equilibrium was off as he stood up. He was light-headed. The crackers, he thought, keeping his pistol at ready as he kept an eye on the guy that was still firing out his driver-side window. As Burt passed by the front of the vehicle, he couldn’t help but notice blood lining the hood. There were several dents in the hood, too. A patch of hair was visible on the grill guard. Goddammit, thought Burt, hoping he made a good call. Burt jumped in the vehicle. “How the hell did you get this far?” asked Burt. “The street is bottlenecked with traffic.” “Sidewalks make great roads,” said the guy. Jesus Christ, thought Burt. This guy is a certified maniac. Burt reached into his jacket. While he had the moment, he might as well pop some crackers into his mouth. Most of the crackers had crumbled into small pieces, so he scooped what he could into his mouth. “It’s a field day for dumbasses,” shouted the man. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He was wearing a stylish button-down shirt that was opened wide. A medallion hung around his sweaty chest. His scruffy blonde hair had not been washed in days. Burt observed several tiny plastic ziplock bags scattered on the seats and floorboards. He imagined the remnants of white powder in the bags were not flour. Bastard’s coked up, he thought to himself. “It’s like Baby Jesus come out of the sky and unleashed the dumb fucks,” shouted the man. “You can shoot ‘em now. You know that, right?” “No,” said Burt. “No, I didn’t know that.” “Destroy the brain, they said,” shouted the man, indicating his gold-plated custom .44, waggling it in his hand. “Destroy the brain!” he shouted, firing at people out his window. Christ, thought Burt. Who the fuck is more dangerous? The people or those cannibals? Burt tumbled against the door as the man swerved to hit two people with his vehicle. “Fuck yeah!” shouted the man as Burt was bumped up in his seat as the truck rolled over the two pedestrians. “Christ, man,” shouted Burt. “Were they even those cannibals?” “Probably,” said the man. “Better safe than sorry, right?” “Right,” said Burt with a grim nod. The guy started to reload, using his knees to steer the truck. It rocked violently, hitting the side of vehicles on the street as it moved forward relentlessly. He put his hands back on the wheel just enough to regain control of the vehicle. “I brought you on so you could use those guns of yours. Why don’t you have at it?” he said, looking menacingly at Burt. Bastard’s going to shoot me, thought Burt. “Good idea,” he said. The man flicked back the .44, loading the first round as they neared an intersection. “Let ‘em have it!” shouted the man, pointing his gun out the window. Burt’s eyes widened as he saw an out of control big rig speed into the intersection as the Ford did, too. The big diesel beast was knocking cars out of the way like a shark fin through water. It clobbered the F-150 right at the driver side door he had just pointed his gun out of. The truck forced the guy’s wrist to turn inward. It was moving so fast that his arm could not stand the force. Though his body shifted to absorb the collision, his arm snapped just below the elbow, splintering bone and jamming it up and out of his flesh. Bone tore through his skin like two hands tearing fabric. The rig smashed into the truck, sending the guy face-first into the rig. His nose and cheek were smacked by the steel workhorse, sending blood splashing out of deep wounds in his face. He was flung towards Burt as his driver side airbag blew open, smacking him on his rebounding face as the truck spun near 180 degrees, shucked aside by the rig as it proceeded on its out-of-control demolition derby. Rattled and surprisingly not injured, Burt knew this was his chance to make a break for it. As Burt opened the door, the man groaned, reaching out to Burt with his good hand, coated red with his own blood. “Hey, dude,” the guy groaned. “Help me.” Without a word, Burt just slammed the door and ran off. Burt was now only a few short blocks away. But more chaos was just ahead as well, waiting for him.
===============
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
9. BURT MAKES HIS RUN
With his soul on fire, his M-16 slung over a shoulder, pistols on his hip, and his KA-BAR concealed against his hand and arm, Burt left his apartment. Locking up his home, he could feel the tension of the city wash over him. He could hear television sets behind closed doors rattling off the news he was just watching. Even muffled, he could still hear the urgency in the voices.Cracks of gunfire danced in the air. Burt could identify pistols and sub-machine guns. Shouts, cries, and screams sang a song of terror accompanied by the music of the firearms.There was no doubt about it. Los Angeles county had fallen into the depths of chaos. Burt sighed. It was a sad and familiar sound that danced over the cityscape, one he hadn’t heard in years.It was the sound of a battlefield.Before Burt could make his way down the stairs to his vehicle, a hand grabbed his jacket sleeve. It took Burt by surprise. His training took over as he twisted his hand away. He shoved the attacker away and positioned his knife to jab once he identified his attacker.“Please, don’t hurt me,” shouted the lady with fear. She held up her hands. Sweat laced her brow, making some of her middle-aged blonde hair stick to her forehead. “I need your help.”Good God almighty, thought Burt to himself. Jerkoffs and idiots of the riots he could deal with. These so-called cannibals or risen dead? He’ll have to wait and see for himself.But desperate people, people outside of the chaos looking for help? This would be tough.“Please. My boyfriend…one of those people bit him. He’s sick. I need your help.”She needs my gun, Burt thought to himself, watching her eyes fall to his sidearms. Stay focused, Burt, he said to himself.“I can’t help you, lady. I’m sorry,” he said, moving down the stairs to his car.The lady made a desperate move, grabbing his coat.“Please! Help me!”Burt snatched her hand away quickly again and shoved her away. Burt couldn’t believe how desperate she was, having already threatened her with the knife. He had enough sense not to stab her, even though his conditioned impulse was there. This didn’t need to escalate. The lady needed to get the message.“I said no, lady!” shouted Burt. “Now get the hell away from me!”Suddenly, three flights above them, something snarled with primal anger. They both looked up to see what appeared to be a drunken man. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and he looked at Burt with bizarre anger.“Jimmy,” shouted the lady. “No!”The woman immediately rose to her feet, running up the stairs.Burt wanted no part of the domestic dispute and ran down the stairs to the parking lot.Clearing the apartment building, he was able to look out on the city. Plumes of smoke drifted into the sky like toxic smoke from the mouth of a dying dragon. The same symphony of mayhem Burt heard as he left his apartment beat its steady rhythm. The gunshots and shouts of terror were the classical music of human-made pandemonium. A variation on a theme of conflict played throughout the course of human existence, as conducted by Toscanini, Solti, Williams, or even James Levine or Leonard Bernstein. The sound and the fury.Dashing to his car, he could feel the adrenaline pushing him forward. It was providing energy he was going to need.As he got to his car, he looked out toward the street. It was packed with cars honking in a cacophony of fearful frustration.“I’ll never get out of here,” Burt groaned. Standing still in a line of cars would also leave him vulnerable to attack or carjacking.“Goddammit,” he groaned.A set of hands grabbed him by the shoulder.Burt growled, knocking the hands away and shouting, “Lady! I already told you…”But when he turned around, it wasn’t the lady. It was a man. But it wasn’t any ordinary man. This man had thick red slime around his mouth that Burt could only deduce was congealing blood.“Shit!” he shouted as it grabbed him again, opening its mouth wide for a bite. It’s one of them.The monster shoved Burt into his own car, pushing him down on the hood. It snarled as it tried to bite him.Burt was strong enough to hold the monster off with one hand while stabbing it several times with its knife. Blood dripped from its wounds and it backed off against an adjacent car.Burt drew his M-16 when he heard a blast. The monster’s head burst, splashing all over Burt and the cars.“Jesus Christ!” shouted Burt. He watched the executed attacker fall to the ground.“I tried to tell you,” said a voice. Burt turned around to see Guerra, brandishing the shotgun he had sold him. “Jesus, Mike,” said Burt. “You just killed the guy.”“He attacked you.”“Was that one of those…”“Cannibals? I’m pretty sure it was.”Burt looked back at the body. It’s arm was quivering as blood poured out of its wounded head.Burt couldn’t take it. He ran to a bush by the apartment complex and threw up. It was more of a dry heave as he had hardly eaten.“You’re going to have fun today,” said Mike.“Fuck you, Guerra,” said Burt, pulling himself together. “What the hell are you doing out here?”“Corner store,” he said, holding up bag filled with sodas. “We needed something to drink.”“No water?”“There was water. But I figured I should grab the RC while it was still on the shelves.”Idiot, thought Burt. “Good one,” said Burt.“Where are you going?” asked Guerra.“Locked and Loaded.”“Good luck with that. They’ve been looting that area for the past hour.” Burt groaned. “Thanks for the intel.” “I’m going back up to the apartment. Come by if you make it back,” said Guerra running off. Burt turned around and looked at the street again. It was as if the street found a way to get more congested between the time he was looking at it up to now. “Here goes nothing,” he said, trotting toward the street. It was only several city blocks away, but considering the danger in the streets, it might as well have been in Temecula or Fresno. But his drive was still unaffected. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to ‘Locked and Loaded’. From behind a car, a teenager jumped out at Burt, pointing a gun at him. “Drop the knife, old man!” he shouted, “and give me your shit!” Not again, he thought to himself. “You need to take a minute, kid,” he said, raising his hands. “Do you see what’s going on out there?” The boy was about to get a surprise. He was just a boy. Burt had put himself in a game of life and death on the streets. But unlike Guerra, he didn’t want blood on his hands. Especially with an idiot kid he could handle. “I’ll shot you in the face, motherfu…” All Burt heard was Lombardo’s voice saying one of the most basic fundamentals of hand to hand combat: Commit. And he did. Burt grabbed the barrel of the pistol and moved it away from his face, out of the line of fire with only a move of a few inches. Simultaneously, he popped the boy in the face multiple times. Burt’s massive fists turned the boy’s nose and mouth to mush. The second punch had already knocked him out. And when the back of the boy’s head hit the pavement, his arms and legs froze in an awkward and stiff position. He looked like a red-headed Ken doll that had been discarded by a child. Burt picked himself off the ground, checking the requisitioned weapon for ammunition. It was empty. “Stupid child,” he muttered, discarding the weapon. The boy was puffing with an awkward breath, still stuck in the awkward pose as Burt dashed off, leaving the kid behind. As Burt turned a corner, the boy was attacked by one of the ghastly cannibals as he lay on the ground, helpless. Though he was completely healthy and alive, he was still paralyzed by the concussion. The infected monster grabbed his still-stiff arm and bit. The pain made the boy respond, but only with a grunt. He began to pant, perhaps in a seizure. The ghoul simply chewed on the chunk as the boy bled from the now-shaking arm. The road to ‘Locked and Loaded’ was littered with catastrophe. Cars stood idle. Cars wrecked. Cars burning. The drivers burned beyond recognition, black silhouettes of humans who had been alive, perhaps only minutes before. People were running and shouting at each other. People were fighting each other. It was every man for himself on the streets of Montebello. The same fearful desperation that hid behind apartment doors was now unleashed on the city streets. Burt made it to a street corner when he heard a shout. “Hey! Gimmie that gun, mother fucker!” Burt turned to see a gang of four street thugs race at him with knives drawn. “Goddammit,” thought Burt. His knife was drawn, but he needed something more. His M-16 would mow them down, but there were so many others who could be hit by his fire. He didn’t want to do it, but it was his only choice. Before he could unsling his M-16, gunshots were fired. They were flying from behind him. Burt fell to the ground, unhurt, and scrambled for cover behind a city trash can.
Burt watched as two of the gang thugs were hit, falling to the ground, wounded. The other gang members ran, or just dove for cover as Burt heard another voice. “Hey, old man! Let’s get out of here!” Burt looked up to see a man in a Navy blue F-350 waving him in. “C’mon, guy,” said the man, firing more rounds at the gang. Burt knew he could not trust the man at this point, but the guy had wheels. He could still get him out of the tight spot, and maybe drive him to the shop. Slowly getting up, Burt ran to the truck after unholstering one of his pistols. If this guy was going to blast him, he would be ready with an answer of his own. Burt noticed his equilibrium was off as he stood up. He was light-headed. The crackers, he thought, keeping his pistol at ready as he kept an eye on the guy that was still firing out his driver-side window. As Burt passed by the front of the vehicle, he couldn’t help but notice blood lining the hood. There were several dents in the hood, too. A patch of hair was visible on the grill guard. Goddammit, thought Burt, hoping he made a good call. Burt jumped in the vehicle. “How the hell did you get this far?” asked Burt. “The street is bottlenecked with traffic.” “Sidewalks make great roads,” said the guy. Jesus Christ, thought Burt. This guy is a certified maniac. Burt reached into his jacket. While he had the moment, he might as well pop some crackers into his mouth. Most of the crackers had crumbled into small pieces, so he scooped what he could into his mouth. “It’s a field day for dumbasses,” shouted the man. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He was wearing a stylish button-down shirt that was opened wide. A medallion hung around his sweaty chest. His scruffy blonde hair had not been washed in days. Burt observed several tiny plastic ziplock bags scattered on the seats and floorboards. He imagined the remnants of white powder in the bags were not flour. Bastard’s coked up, he thought to himself. “It’s like Baby Jesus come out of the sky and unleashed the dumb fucks,” shouted the man. “You can shoot ‘em now. You know that, right?” “No,” said Burt. “No, I didn’t know that.” “Destroy the brain, they said,” shouted the man, indicating his gold-plated custom .44, waggling it in his hand. “Destroy the brain!” he shouted, firing at people out his window. Christ, thought Burt. Who the fuck is more dangerous? The people or those cannibals? Burt tumbled against the door as the man swerved to hit two people with his vehicle. “Fuck yeah!” shouted the man as Burt was bumped up in his seat as the truck rolled over the two pedestrians. “Christ, man,” shouted Burt. “Were they even those cannibals?” “Probably,” said the man. “Better safe than sorry, right?” “Right,” said Burt with a grim nod. The guy started to reload, using his knees to steer the truck. It rocked violently, hitting the side of vehicles on the street as it moved forward relentlessly. He put his hands back on the wheel just enough to regain control of the vehicle. “I brought you on so you could use those guns of yours. Why don’t you have at it?” he said, looking menacingly at Burt. Bastard’s going to shoot me, thought Burt. “Good idea,” he said. The man flicked back the .44, loading the first round as they neared an intersection. “Let ‘em have it!” shouted the man, pointing his gun out the window. Burt’s eyes widened as he saw an out of control big rig speed into the intersection as the Ford did, too. The big diesel beast was knocking cars out of the way like a shark fin through water. It clobbered the F-150 right at the driver side door he had just pointed his gun out of. The truck forced the guy’s wrist to turn inward. It was moving so fast that his arm could not stand the force. Though his body shifted to absorb the collision, his arm snapped just below the elbow, splintering bone and jamming it up and out of his flesh. Bone tore through his skin like two hands tearing fabric. The rig smashed into the truck, sending the guy face-first into the rig. His nose and cheek were smacked by the steel workhorse, sending blood splashing out of deep wounds in his face. He was flung towards Burt as his driver side airbag blew open, smacking him on his rebounding face as the truck spun near 180 degrees, shucked aside by the rig as it proceeded on its out-of-control demolition derby. Rattled and surprisingly not injured, Burt knew this was his chance to make a break for it. As Burt opened the door, the man groaned, reaching out to Burt with his good hand, coated red with his own blood. “Hey, dude,” the guy groaned. “Help me.” Without a word, Burt just slammed the door and ran off. Burt was now only a few short blocks away. But more chaos was just ahead as well, waiting for him.===============
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
December 8, 2015
ZOMBIES - "We're Alive" Fan Fiction - Chapter 8: Then the Rest of the World Ends
A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
8. THEN THE REST OF THE WORLD ENDS
He remains only in my memory. The final shot of ‘The Road Warrior’ played out on the screen. The camera panned away from Max, leaving him alone on the cruel post-apocalyptic Australian highway. Then, it transitioned to the closing credits and the Brian May end credit theme. “Sheremains only in my memory,” whispered Burt. As the credits rolled, Burt rose from his seat. He walked to a nearby wall that was lined with several dusty and old picture frames. One was the picture frame with their engagement pictures. The central picture was of his loving and dearly departed wife. She was dressed in her white wedding dress. She looked stunning. Her deep brown eyes sparkled above her immaculate smile. Burt always told her she was prettier than the bouquet she held. Around her picture were pictures of them together. Walking. Holding hands. Looking into each other’s eyes. Kissing. For a moment, Burt could feel her kiss on his lips again. It made him smile, but he sighed with sadness. The tape ended. The VCR clicked to a stop and churned. The blue field appeared on the television again. The word ‘STOP’ appeared at the top in bold digital white. As the VHS clicked again, the word was replaced with the letters ‘REW’. Burt could hear the old machine whirling away as it rewound the VHS tape. Burt moved to another picture. It was a print of the ribbon cutting from the Montebello newspaper. Everyone was all smiles, at least in the picture. What the picture didn’t show was the small mob of about thirty protesters who came out of the woodwork to demonstrate against the gun shop. Burt was thankful for the interview by local news KABC. But he was even more thankful for the even-handed reporting that simply provided both perspectives fairly. Thinking back on his interview, he thought he made a good point. Most of his argument revolved around local police being stretched thin and that it was every citizen’s God-given right to defend themselves, their families, and their property within the parameters of the law. “Someday, these people will be faced with a circumstance where they’ll wish they had a gun.” It was a perfect sound bite that the TV station used to close the piece. Burt was happy that was the last impression the viewer was left with. Then Burt chuckled as he remembered Shirley’s passionate and obscenity-laced response. They didn’t have any footage they could use from her interview segment that was appropriate for the air. The thought made him think of one of their last conversations. “You take care of the store when I’m gone, Burt,” she would say. “Absolutely,” said Burt with resolve. “It’s our store.” “It’s mystore,” she responded as powerfully as she could. “Don’t you fuckin’ sell it, or anything. You take care of my store.” “I swear on my mother’s grave,” he said. “I will defend your store.” “Even if the world ends,” she joked. “And mauraders are fighting for fuel or some shit.” Burt chuckled. “Even when the world ends.” It was a funny joke to them. The end of the world. That concept was always good for a laugh. Then the VCR clicked to a hard stop. The white ‘STOP’ letters appeared on the blue screen again. Having had to rewind the VHS tape automatically, the player had a particular program. The machine assumed the viewer had fallen asleep or just was done watching movies. So the word ‘EJECT’ appeared on the screen. The machine spit up tape, placing it out of its rectangular mouth just enough for the viewer to grab and put away when they were ready. Then, finished with its job, it turned itself off. Thus, the blue screen transitioned to television. Then, the TV was displaying what was now showing on the channel.The world of post-apocalyptic Australia was now turned off.Replaced on the screen was the world of the current apocalypse taking place in California. In Los Angeles and all the surrounding suburbs.That meant Montebello. …bodies of the dead are rising and engaging in cannibalism. Religious leaders are calling it the end of the world. The bodies of the dead are rising and attacking the living… The words at first didn’t register in Burt’s head. “Bodies of the dead rising to attack the living” “Acts of cannibalism” “Wholesale murder sweeping Los Angeles, from Hollywood Blvd. to William Wright St.” “William Wright St.?” whispered Burt, turning to the television. “The gun shop.”385 William Wright St. was the location of the gun shop. The closed gun shop.The intimate familiarity of the street name caught his attention. He walked to the television, listening and watching. “…incredible as they seem, are not the result of mass hysteria…” Over a helicopter shooting live footage of absolute and pure mayhem in downtown Los Angeles, a stern and stoic voice spoke with grim urgency. “…report from FEMA in Washington, D.C., quote, ‘It has been established that persons who have recently died have been returning to life and committing acts of murder…” “What?” whispered Burt, changing the channel to make sure this wasn’t some kind of movie. A sheriff stood by a stack of flaming dead. “… bad part is? I know some of these people…” Changed again. “… body that is not exterminated becomes one of them. It gets up and kills. The…” Changed again. “… Vamanos. Everybody let’s go. C’mon, let’s get to it. I know…” “Dora the Explorer on PBS,” groaned Burt. He changed it back to the original station. There was no sense denying it now. The news chopper was showing footage of the city. Burt picked up his phone. He dialed the passcode to listen to his messages. “You have four unheard messages,” said the voice. The first was from his Uncle Oscar. The very same one he let the call notes pick up. “Burt, its your Uncle. Call me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Burt deleted the message and listened to the next message. “Burt, it’s Mike. Can you believe that shit going on out there? I don’t know whaaaat the fuck is going on with those cannibals. I need some weapons, though. Give me a call. Bye.” Burt deleted it, then listened to the next message. “Burt, its your Uncle Oscar. I just want to know if you are okay. We’re doing alright over here in Sacramento. Crazy shit has started here, too. We just need to know that you’re okay. Call us.” Burt deleted the message, then heard the last one. “Burt, you need to call us now. We’re securing our house now and want to know if you are doing alright. We’re going to be fine here, but please, we’re trying to check up on all our family and you’re the only one we haven’t heard from. Call us. Bye.” “Damn,” muttered Burt, dialing his uncle’s cell phone number frantically. He wondered again how things could have got so crazy in the course of ninety minutes, the length of the movie. After a number of rings, the call-notes picked up. “Hi. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if…” Burt hung up the phone. He looked under the end table for the greater Los Angeles phone book. He picked it up and looked for his uncle’s home phone number. When he found it, he dialed it and waited for someone to pick up. To his initial relief, someone on the other end picked up. “Burt? Is this you?” “It’s me, Uncle Oscar. Are you okay?”“We’re fine. Are you okay?”“I’m fine. But what the hell is going on?” “I can’t talk for very long, Burt. I just wanted to know that you’re okay.” “I already told you. I’m fine. What the hell is going on?” “It’s the end of the world, Burt. The dead are fucking rising and fucking attacking people.” “What?” “I shit you not, Burt. We’re surrounded right now. There’s a bunch just outside our house.” Burt began to panic. It was all so overwhelming and unbelievable. But it was true. It wasn’t a TV show. The news was real, and what was happening at his uncle’s house was real, too.“What have you guys been doing? Are you guys okay?” “We’re fine, we’re fine. We’ve boarded up all the windows. Sebastian and Seth are here. As things got crazy, they made a run to the convenience store for water. They said people were already looting it. They brought us back some water and Gatorade.” “And ‘Chunky Asses’,” called out a voice in the background. “Yeah,” said Uncle Oscar. “Seth brought a copy of ‘Chunky Asses’ and gave it to your aunt.” Burt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Seth was always the dumbass right?” “Right. But they said it was crazy out there. Lots of people are hiding. But lots of people are looting, too. The boys said there were lots of people with weapons killing people they thought were sick. People kicking people’s asses with pipes and shit. It’s just a total madhouse out there. Don’t go out.” Burt was suddenly filled with helplessness. His arsenal was filled with weapons that were no good to his family in Sacramento. “Dammit,” said Burt. “Ya’ll got weapons.” “Yes, but not a lot of bullets,” he replied. “Look, just…” “Don’t worry about us, Burt. You take care of yourself. We’ll…” Then his uncle shouted, “Over there! Stop it!” Burt could hear gunfire and more shouting on the other end of the line. “Uncle Oscar,” he said. “Uncle Oscar.” “Burt,” shouted his uncle. “Take care. Thanks for calling. I gotta go. Call us later.” Then the line went dead. “What the hell?” asked Burt out loud. The television announcer then caught his attention. “…sidents of Los Angeles county are encouraged to stay in their place of residence at this point and defend themselves. If you encounter any of the attackers, FEMA has advised the only way to stop them is by removing the head or destroying the brain…” Though Burt caught the last statement, it was a video image that got his attention.
“Locked and Loaded,” he whispered, recognizing the buildings in the video image. “My store.” Her store, he thought. The anger he had repressed by ignoring the news, the rage he felt for the city and the people causing the unrest suddenly returned to the forefront of his mind. He was getting an idea why things got so rowdy, but that was no excuse for looting. In fact, considering the bizarre phenomena occurring across the city, it was now even more dangerous than your average LA riot. It was the last thing he wanted to do. His plan was to stay in the house, ride out the storm. He did not want to go out into the stupidity of the city. But now, Burt knew one thing for sure, apocalypse or no apocalypse, he now had a mission. “There’s no way in hell you stupid bastards are taking Shirley’s store,” he growled. Burt was not taking this shit lying down. He hoped what waited for him on the burning streets of Los Angeles county did not feature what ‘Road Warrior’ had illustrated. Rapes. Fights. Death. But considering what his uncle had just told him, he didn’t hold out hope for any kind of decency in the middle of a riot. With meaning, he rose from his chair. He passed by the kitchen. The meat thawing in the sink would have to be ignored. No time, he thought to himself. He grabbed a handful of crackers and dashed to the weapon room. Burt put on a military jacket immediately, putting the remaining bag of crackers into his jacket. The jacket was a heavy-duty coat that was hanging by the door for just such an occasion. He knew exactly what else to grab in his armory. M-16 with a sling, fully loaded. Two more fully-loaded magazines for the M-16 were placed in the jacket pocket, with two additional magazines prepared for his other loaded and lethal weapons: two .45 Colts. One was set on either side in a holster on his hips. Burt knew he didn’t want to have to expend the ammo until he absolutely needed to. So he reached for his KA-BAR, a knife from his Marine Corps days. Etched into the cold steel were the initials, ‘USMC’. “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children,” he whispered. Burt’s heart was ready. His soul was burning, a ball of spiritual fire ready to fight for the memory of his wife and the store. Her store.Only a few minutes before, he was going to avoid the chaos outside his door like the plague it seemed to be. Now, he couldn’t wait to get out into it and jump into the fray. As Burt looked at his trembling hand holding the KA-BAR, he took a moment to consider the danger. Could his body commit to combat in the world of the bizarre cannibalistic rising dead? He was hungry, but would the crackers he ate throughout the day provide enough energy to make a run for the store? Burt took a deep breath. Then, he took a knee by the table where bullets were refilled. He placed his arm against the edge of the table. Still holding the KA-BAR firmly in hand, he closed his eyes and placed his head against his arm. He slung his M-16 across his shoulder. Burt then began to whisper the only prayer he ever knew. “This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.” Burt thought about his past. His cousins. School. “Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.” Why do you even show up to school, Scott. You’re useless¸ he could hear Principal Baines say. “I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.” I will. “My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our bursts, or the smoke we make. We know it is the hits that count. We will hit.” Memories of the Viet Cong attack flew through his head. “My rifle is human, even as I am human, because it is my life…” Burt could feel his adrenaline rise. In spite of his hunger and shaking hands, he was going to make a hard and true push to secure ‘Locked and Loaded’ if it was the last thing he ever did. “Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.
“So be it, until victory is America’s and there is no enemy.”
===============
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the“WE’RE ALIVE” podcast
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
8. THEN THE REST OF THE WORLD ENDS
He remains only in my memory. The final shot of ‘The Road Warrior’ played out on the screen. The camera panned away from Max, leaving him alone on the cruel post-apocalyptic Australian highway. Then, it transitioned to the closing credits and the Brian May end credit theme. “Sheremains only in my memory,” whispered Burt. As the credits rolled, Burt rose from his seat. He walked to a nearby wall that was lined with several dusty and old picture frames. One was the picture frame with their engagement pictures. The central picture was of his loving and dearly departed wife. She was dressed in her white wedding dress. She looked stunning. Her deep brown eyes sparkled above her immaculate smile. Burt always told her she was prettier than the bouquet she held. Around her picture were pictures of them together. Walking. Holding hands. Looking into each other’s eyes. Kissing. For a moment, Burt could feel her kiss on his lips again. It made him smile, but he sighed with sadness. The tape ended. The VCR clicked to a stop and churned. The blue field appeared on the television again. The word ‘STOP’ appeared at the top in bold digital white. As the VHS clicked again, the word was replaced with the letters ‘REW’. Burt could hear the old machine whirling away as it rewound the VHS tape. Burt moved to another picture. It was a print of the ribbon cutting from the Montebello newspaper. Everyone was all smiles, at least in the picture. What the picture didn’t show was the small mob of about thirty protesters who came out of the woodwork to demonstrate against the gun shop. Burt was thankful for the interview by local news KABC. But he was even more thankful for the even-handed reporting that simply provided both perspectives fairly. Thinking back on his interview, he thought he made a good point. Most of his argument revolved around local police being stretched thin and that it was every citizen’s God-given right to defend themselves, their families, and their property within the parameters of the law. “Someday, these people will be faced with a circumstance where they’ll wish they had a gun.” It was a perfect sound bite that the TV station used to close the piece. Burt was happy that was the last impression the viewer was left with. Then Burt chuckled as he remembered Shirley’s passionate and obscenity-laced response. They didn’t have any footage they could use from her interview segment that was appropriate for the air. The thought made him think of one of their last conversations. “You take care of the store when I’m gone, Burt,” she would say. “Absolutely,” said Burt with resolve. “It’s our store.” “It’s mystore,” she responded as powerfully as she could. “Don’t you fuckin’ sell it, or anything. You take care of my store.” “I swear on my mother’s grave,” he said. “I will defend your store.” “Even if the world ends,” she joked. “And mauraders are fighting for fuel or some shit.” Burt chuckled. “Even when the world ends.” It was a funny joke to them. The end of the world. That concept was always good for a laugh. Then the VCR clicked to a hard stop. The white ‘STOP’ letters appeared on the blue screen again. Having had to rewind the VHS tape automatically, the player had a particular program. The machine assumed the viewer had fallen asleep or just was done watching movies. So the word ‘EJECT’ appeared on the screen. The machine spit up tape, placing it out of its rectangular mouth just enough for the viewer to grab and put away when they were ready. Then, finished with its job, it turned itself off. Thus, the blue screen transitioned to television. Then, the TV was displaying what was now showing on the channel.The world of post-apocalyptic Australia was now turned off.Replaced on the screen was the world of the current apocalypse taking place in California. In Los Angeles and all the surrounding suburbs.That meant Montebello. …bodies of the dead are rising and engaging in cannibalism. Religious leaders are calling it the end of the world. The bodies of the dead are rising and attacking the living… The words at first didn’t register in Burt’s head. “Bodies of the dead rising to attack the living” “Acts of cannibalism” “Wholesale murder sweeping Los Angeles, from Hollywood Blvd. to William Wright St.” “William Wright St.?” whispered Burt, turning to the television. “The gun shop.”385 William Wright St. was the location of the gun shop. The closed gun shop.The intimate familiarity of the street name caught his attention. He walked to the television, listening and watching. “…incredible as they seem, are not the result of mass hysteria…” Over a helicopter shooting live footage of absolute and pure mayhem in downtown Los Angeles, a stern and stoic voice spoke with grim urgency. “…report from FEMA in Washington, D.C., quote, ‘It has been established that persons who have recently died have been returning to life and committing acts of murder…” “What?” whispered Burt, changing the channel to make sure this wasn’t some kind of movie. A sheriff stood by a stack of flaming dead. “… bad part is? I know some of these people…” Changed again. “… body that is not exterminated becomes one of them. It gets up and kills. The…” Changed again. “… Vamanos. Everybody let’s go. C’mon, let’s get to it. I know…” “Dora the Explorer on PBS,” groaned Burt. He changed it back to the original station. There was no sense denying it now. The news chopper was showing footage of the city. Burt picked up his phone. He dialed the passcode to listen to his messages. “You have four unheard messages,” said the voice. The first was from his Uncle Oscar. The very same one he let the call notes pick up. “Burt, its your Uncle. Call me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Burt deleted the message and listened to the next message. “Burt, it’s Mike. Can you believe that shit going on out there? I don’t know whaaaat the fuck is going on with those cannibals. I need some weapons, though. Give me a call. Bye.” Burt deleted it, then listened to the next message. “Burt, its your Uncle Oscar. I just want to know if you are okay. We’re doing alright over here in Sacramento. Crazy shit has started here, too. We just need to know that you’re okay. Call us.” Burt deleted the message, then heard the last one. “Burt, you need to call us now. We’re securing our house now and want to know if you are doing alright. We’re going to be fine here, but please, we’re trying to check up on all our family and you’re the only one we haven’t heard from. Call us. Bye.” “Damn,” muttered Burt, dialing his uncle’s cell phone number frantically. He wondered again how things could have got so crazy in the course of ninety minutes, the length of the movie. After a number of rings, the call-notes picked up. “Hi. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if…” Burt hung up the phone. He looked under the end table for the greater Los Angeles phone book. He picked it up and looked for his uncle’s home phone number. When he found it, he dialed it and waited for someone to pick up. To his initial relief, someone on the other end picked up. “Burt? Is this you?” “It’s me, Uncle Oscar. Are you okay?”“We’re fine. Are you okay?”“I’m fine. But what the hell is going on?” “I can’t talk for very long, Burt. I just wanted to know that you’re okay.” “I already told you. I’m fine. What the hell is going on?” “It’s the end of the world, Burt. The dead are fucking rising and fucking attacking people.” “What?” “I shit you not, Burt. We’re surrounded right now. There’s a bunch just outside our house.” Burt began to panic. It was all so overwhelming and unbelievable. But it was true. It wasn’t a TV show. The news was real, and what was happening at his uncle’s house was real, too.“What have you guys been doing? Are you guys okay?” “We’re fine, we’re fine. We’ve boarded up all the windows. Sebastian and Seth are here. As things got crazy, they made a run to the convenience store for water. They said people were already looting it. They brought us back some water and Gatorade.” “And ‘Chunky Asses’,” called out a voice in the background. “Yeah,” said Uncle Oscar. “Seth brought a copy of ‘Chunky Asses’ and gave it to your aunt.” Burt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Seth was always the dumbass right?” “Right. But they said it was crazy out there. Lots of people are hiding. But lots of people are looting, too. The boys said there were lots of people with weapons killing people they thought were sick. People kicking people’s asses with pipes and shit. It’s just a total madhouse out there. Don’t go out.” Burt was suddenly filled with helplessness. His arsenal was filled with weapons that were no good to his family in Sacramento. “Dammit,” said Burt. “Ya’ll got weapons.” “Yes, but not a lot of bullets,” he replied. “Look, just…” “Don’t worry about us, Burt. You take care of yourself. We’ll…” Then his uncle shouted, “Over there! Stop it!” Burt could hear gunfire and more shouting on the other end of the line. “Uncle Oscar,” he said. “Uncle Oscar.” “Burt,” shouted his uncle. “Take care. Thanks for calling. I gotta go. Call us later.” Then the line went dead. “What the hell?” asked Burt out loud. The television announcer then caught his attention. “…sidents of Los Angeles county are encouraged to stay in their place of residence at this point and defend themselves. If you encounter any of the attackers, FEMA has advised the only way to stop them is by removing the head or destroying the brain…” Though Burt caught the last statement, it was a video image that got his attention.
“Locked and Loaded,” he whispered, recognizing the buildings in the video image. “My store.” Her store, he thought. The anger he had repressed by ignoring the news, the rage he felt for the city and the people causing the unrest suddenly returned to the forefront of his mind. He was getting an idea why things got so rowdy, but that was no excuse for looting. In fact, considering the bizarre phenomena occurring across the city, it was now even more dangerous than your average LA riot. It was the last thing he wanted to do. His plan was to stay in the house, ride out the storm. He did not want to go out into the stupidity of the city. But now, Burt knew one thing for sure, apocalypse or no apocalypse, he now had a mission. “There’s no way in hell you stupid bastards are taking Shirley’s store,” he growled. Burt was not taking this shit lying down. He hoped what waited for him on the burning streets of Los Angeles county did not feature what ‘Road Warrior’ had illustrated. Rapes. Fights. Death. But considering what his uncle had just told him, he didn’t hold out hope for any kind of decency in the middle of a riot. With meaning, he rose from his chair. He passed by the kitchen. The meat thawing in the sink would have to be ignored. No time, he thought to himself. He grabbed a handful of crackers and dashed to the weapon room. Burt put on a military jacket immediately, putting the remaining bag of crackers into his jacket. The jacket was a heavy-duty coat that was hanging by the door for just such an occasion. He knew exactly what else to grab in his armory. M-16 with a sling, fully loaded. Two more fully-loaded magazines for the M-16 were placed in the jacket pocket, with two additional magazines prepared for his other loaded and lethal weapons: two .45 Colts. One was set on either side in a holster on his hips. Burt knew he didn’t want to have to expend the ammo until he absolutely needed to. So he reached for his KA-BAR, a knife from his Marine Corps days. Etched into the cold steel were the initials, ‘USMC’. “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children,” he whispered. Burt’s heart was ready. His soul was burning, a ball of spiritual fire ready to fight for the memory of his wife and the store. Her store.Only a few minutes before, he was going to avoid the chaos outside his door like the plague it seemed to be. Now, he couldn’t wait to get out into it and jump into the fray. As Burt looked at his trembling hand holding the KA-BAR, he took a moment to consider the danger. Could his body commit to combat in the world of the bizarre cannibalistic rising dead? He was hungry, but would the crackers he ate throughout the day provide enough energy to make a run for the store? Burt took a deep breath. Then, he took a knee by the table where bullets were refilled. He placed his arm against the edge of the table. Still holding the KA-BAR firmly in hand, he closed his eyes and placed his head against his arm. He slung his M-16 across his shoulder. Burt then began to whisper the only prayer he ever knew. “This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.” Burt thought about his past. His cousins. School. “Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.” Why do you even show up to school, Scott. You’re useless¸ he could hear Principal Baines say. “I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.” I will. “My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our bursts, or the smoke we make. We know it is the hits that count. We will hit.” Memories of the Viet Cong attack flew through his head. “My rifle is human, even as I am human, because it is my life…” Burt could feel his adrenaline rise. In spite of his hunger and shaking hands, he was going to make a hard and true push to secure ‘Locked and Loaded’ if it was the last thing he ever did. “Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.“So be it, until victory is America’s and there is no enemy.”
===============
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
CHAPTER 0
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7A
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
Network with Bowie and find his other titles at his official website, ZBFbooks.com.
For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
