*****
The young engineer, who eventually became known to us as the Mad
Bomber, didn’t immediately announce his presence.
He and his wife moved
in while we were taking a three-day vacation in Mexico so we never actually set
eyes on them. Rent checks were shoved under the door in the dark of night. Or
at least they were there when I got up in the morning, which was pretty early
since I had to be at work at six. The windows to the engineer’s ground-floor
apartment were always covered – not with flags, thank God, but with madras
bedspreads from Pier One Imports, which was just starting out in those days and
their stuff was relatively cheap.
I wasn’t concerned at
first, because as it turned out my new tenant was not only an aerospace engineer,
he was also a super specialist in rare and exotic metals, including theoretical
space metals. There were maybe twenty, thirty people in the whole damned world
who knew what the guy knew about rare metals – titanium being the most common
of those exotics. He also could work them, cut them, bore, or drill them with a
precision few people on the planet could match.
He made a helluva
good living, but he and his wife had some unfortunate habits that tended to
keep them short of dough.
For a time there were
no problems to speak of. The rent was paid semi on time and the couple, who
eventually became known to me as Mr. and Mrs. Mad Bomber, kept to themselves. I
never saw them outdoors, day or night. As time went by, however, I occasionally
heard loud bangs in the alley that concerned me, but not so much as to go out
to investigate.
In those days it
wasn’t that uncommon for Venice people to engage in activities that might cause
inappropriate bangs. They also painted dirty words and rebellious comments on
walls and when they got behind the wheels of their cars, or sat on their
motorcycles, they tended to burn rubber without apparent rhyme or reason.
If a cop tried to
stop them they just scooted for the Venice Canal zone where it was unsafe for
police officers to be in squad car groups of less than three.
Bottom line: there
was a lot of built up tension that had everything to do with the war, which, as
I said before, was now the longest in U.S. history. The death toll was rising,
as was the draft toll. Every other day or so it was my job to call people’s
parents and ask them how they felt about their kid being killed in Vietnam.
I also wrote a regular monthly article
detailing the draft call-up in my newspaper’s circulation area – which ran from
LA Airport to the Malibu/Ventura line and from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills.
You won’t be surprised if I tell you that not too many kids were drafted out of
the Beverly Hills or Malibu postal zones, but a whole lot of them got the call
in Culver City, Mar Vista, Venice, etc. Poor men’s sons were first. Middle
class next.
If you were male and
had money to go to college you stayed there as long as you could, switching
majors at the drop of a hat, but keeping the workload over 13½ units and your
grades “C” or better, because otherwise they’d draft your butt and send it off
for the Viet Cong to shoot at. For medical reasons involving being shot in the
line of CIA brat duty, as well as for the fact that I was responsible for a
wife, an infant child and a teenage boy, I was relatively draft-proof.
So, I had good reason
to ignore the occasional bang, shout or squeal of tires. Then one Monday (I was
generally off Sundays and Mondays) there was a yee-hola explosion that rattled
the windows, shook the doors and knocked loose plaster from the ceiling.
Tasha raced to the
front door, barking at whatever might be outside. Carol ran down the stairs,
Jason in her arms, and got in the kitchen doorway thinking it was an
earthquake. It was a school day, so Charlie wasn’t there.
I knew it was no
earthquake and I glanced out the window to see Roger and Jack racing for our
front door. They knocked. Tasha roared. And I got hold of her and pulled her
back to let them in.
“It was the Mad
Bomber,” Roger panted, slamming the door behind him.
I’m sure my jaw
dropped, because I found myself wishing I possessed a hydraulic device to lift
it from the floor.
“The Mad Who?” I
demanded.
Jack rolled his eyes.
“Jesus, Rog,” he said, “didn’t you tell him about the Mad Bomber?”
Roger took to slapping
his pockets, looking for cigarettes, studiously avoiding my eyes.
“Apparently not,
Jack,” I said, turning to him. “For some reason, neither did you.”
Jack shrugged. “We
flipped for it,” he said. “Rog lost.”
I took a deep breath.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Who is the Bomber and why is he mad?”
Roger said, “He’s the
guy in the Nip kids’ apartment and he’s not pissed at anybody so much as he is…
well… some of his head bolts aren’t on but finger tight, you know?”
I shook my head. “No,
I don’t know,” I said. “Explain, please.”
Jack said, “He likes
to experiment with homemade explosives and timing devices. So, in his spare
time he builds them in his apartment then tests them in the alley - or at the beach, if he isn’t sure how big the
boom will be.”
I said, “From what
just happened in the alley, he’s not always that right on when it comes to boom
size.”
Roger giggled. He was
starting to enjoy this. “No, he’s not,” he said. “I keep him company sometimes.
Shit, Al, the more you learn about explosives, the more interesting it gets. I
mean, fuck, you don’t ever really know what’s gonna happen. I mean, he hits the
switch and it’s fuckin’ ‘bombs away,’ man.”
A small voice echoed,
“Fuckin’ bombs away, man.” It was my six-month old son, who thought Roger was
the greatest thing since well-gnawed zwieback.
Carol, who was not
that fond of Roger but had soft spot for Jack, said, “It’s all your fault,
Rog.”
Nonplussed, Rog
giggled. Jack blushed and said in a low voice, “Sorry, Carol. I should have
mentioned something.”
Never mind that shit,
the full knowledge of what had happened on my watch was sinking in.
“You mean, he’s got
explosives in his apartment?” I asked, voice trembling. “And he’s… he’s…
experimenting with them?”
“Yeah,” Rog said.
“He’s pretty careful, though. Does everything just so. Even when he’s been on
meth for a few days, his hands barely shake.”
If there are any
words to express just how aghast I was, they were lost in prehistoric times
when saber-toothed beasts hunted my small furry ancestors. “He’s a meth freak?”
I gobbled, levels of anxiety bursting every emotional barometer in existence.
“He’s got fucking bombs – bombs that he’s playing with - and he’s a fucking
meth freak?”
“Fucking meth freak,”
little Jason chortled. “Fuck, fuck, fucking meth freak.”
Carol, pale as a
ghost, only rocked him back and forth. “Don’t say, fuck, Jason,” she said
absently. “It’s not nice.”
Roger said, “It’s not
all that bad, Al. He’s mostly under control.”
“Roger’s right,” Jack
said. “After he goes missing from work for a few days they send somebody down
to straighten him out. A company doctor. They give him shots, take him to a
Russian bathhouse and steam him out. Then he’s good as new.”
“And the explosives
in his apartment?” I asked.
Jack shrugged. “Well,
there’s that,” he admitted. “But I’ve been talking to him about improved safety
procedures and he’s really interested.”
“Yeah,” Rog said. “We
could safety-proof him in no time.”
“Why are you guys on
his side?” I wanted to know.
Jack and Roger looked
at each other.
Rog shrugged, then
grinned, saying, “Fuck, Al, he’s fun.”
Jack said, “He
offered to rebuild the engine of my hearse.” Then he shrugged, “Besides, if
anybody messes with him, he might get really pissed and blow up the whole
block.”
Roger grimaced.
“There is that,” he said.
I took many deep
breaths, calming myself. The effort was helped along by Roger who quickly lit a
chubby and let me Bogart way more than my share.
Finally, I said,
“Let’s think this through. First, does he really in fact have enough explosives
to blow up the whole block?”
Roger and Jack looked
at each other. Roger nodded at Jack - the science guy - to take point.
“Technically, no. He’s usually pretty careful about staying more or less within
the certain boundaries about the amount of explosives he has on hand.
"When he gets
real stoned, of course, that can change. And then there’s the fact that he can
turn anything you have under your kitchen sink or garden shed into an
explosive, so…. Non-technically… yes.”
Roger said, “Course,
his old lady likes to load her own ammunition, so you also got all that
gunpowder around.”
He saw the look of
horror on my face and quickly added, “Don’t worry, Al. She can’t shoot worth
shit. She just likes to go bang at things when she’s comin’ down from the
meth.”
“Look at it this way,
Al,” Jack said. “The aerospace industry says these people are perfectly
respectable. The Mad Bomber is a super engineer, but a little crazy. You know,
funny in the head, as they said in Dr. Strangelove. But he’s our kind of funny
in the head. He’s on our side. Against the bad guys. Against the fascist pigs
and the draft boards and, and, well all those shit heads.’
Roger took one look
at me and said, “Shut the fuck up, Jack. You’re not making Al feel any better.”
Then, turning to me, he said, “The main thing is, Al, when you’re around him
don’t make sudden moves. He’s into meth, and reds when he needs to come down,
and he’s paranoid as shit. If you call the pigs they’ll come creepin’ around
like before with the Nip kids and he’ll fuckin’ freak. We don’t want that, do
we?”
Carol broke in,
saying, “I don’t want a crazy man with bombs living next door to my child, and
that’s that.”
Roger sighed and
patted Jason on the head. “I thought about the rug rat,” he said. “That’d be
fucked… messin’ up my little buddy, you know?” He made motions with his fists
at Jason, who beamed, making tiny fists and swinging them in Roger’s direction.
Roger went on, “I
looked at your back wall, and with the other apartment building in between, I
don’t think you’d be hit much.” He frowned as if thinking over calculations.
“Just keep the little ankle biter’s crib away from the windows,” he said.
When he saw the look
of alarm on Carol’s face, he raised his hands. “Not that anything’s gonna
happen. That’s good advice for earthquakes, too. Never put a rug rat under a
window, unless you want to cut down on the population.”
Carol said something
unladylike, then stomped past us and ran up stairs. Roger looked after her,
amused. “Guess you ain’t getting’ laid tonight, Al,” he said.
Jack snorted. “That’s
not fair, Roger,” he said. “Carol has every reason to be concerned about her
child.”
Roger shrugged, then
said, “What’re you gonna do, Al?”
I said, “What can I
do except leave it alone for now? Wait and see what develops.”
Jack said, “A wise
decision.” But I noticed him looking wistfully up the stairs.
After that I got out
a cigar box of the Korean dope, handed around some pipes and we smoked a few
bowls while listening to the new Rolling Stones album, “Let It Bleed.”
Just to bug Jack for
not clueing me in about the Mad Bomber, I played, “You Can’t Always Get What
You Want.”
But this was small
satisfaction, indeed. I still had to deal with the Mad Bomber. But when? And
how? I mean, I didn’t want him blow up the whole block. I had all my friends
there, you know?
Once again I decided
that there was nothing to do but let it sit for a time.
Into this mix arrived
two topless dancers and Country Joe and the Fish.
NEXT: ANGELS FROM A
TOPLESS BAR
*****
COMING MARCH 15-17: THE SECOND ANNUAL EMPIRE DAY Celebration! Fan Fiction Invited. Kilgour Jokes, New Recipes From The Emp, Commando Tips From Sten. Plus Prizes Galore! Click Here For Details.
During the Vietnam war, GIs who managed to survive their
tour of duty were flown home in chartered airliners, which they called “Freedom
Birds.” This is the story of three young men – from wildly different backgrounds – who meet on
such a plane and make a pact to spend three days together in San Francisco.
Their goal: to spend every cent of their
mustering out money in a party of a
lifetime. And they’ll get more than they bargained for: because when they land,
it is July 1967 – in a time that would come to be known as “The Summer Of Love.” A place and time where each young man will
have to confront the ghosts who followed them home from the jungles of Vietnam
and contemplate a future none of them had imagined.
The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books. The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!
Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.
*****
FREEDOM BIRD: THE SUMMER OF LOVE
*****
ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP
The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books. The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!
Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY
Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT
Here's the Kindle link for DEATHMATCH
*****
HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN
YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!
*****
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.
*****
*****
IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES!
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
 |
| Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969 |
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
STEN #1 NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four
episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands. Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!
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