My knife was ready to flip from my pocket and Michael held the speed wrench as Dave, Chris and Jeremy clutched their Maglights. We blinked back at them, holding our implements of destruction close. He looked back at his five friends, quietly at first, then turned back around shaking his head as they all began to snicker. “We’re driving through on the way to Virginia Beach.” “Ya’ll ain’ frum ‘roun’ heeyah, ah ya?” said the biggest one, who looked like he could’ve picked the van up without the jack. The three in the back of the truck jumped out, shirtless with overalls, and the passenger door of their truck swung wide with a loud creak. We all stood around Michael as they pulled up, still silent, still looking straight at us with looks of disbelief on their faces. In a fever, he quickly finger-tightened the remaining nuts and began spinning the speed wrench as fast as he could. “Michael, hurry up, dude!” Dave exclaimed. We all breathed a sigh of relief until we looked ahead, and saw the truck put on its break lights - and started backing up.
They passed us silently, all of them peering at us like they’d never seen human beings before. It was, in fact, a big, old, beat up, red-and-primer truck, three people in the front and three standing in the bed holding on to the top of the cab screaming like a bunch of wild indians. We were all nervous.Īs Michael was tightening the first lug nut, they were on us. The whooping got louder and louder, the lights closer. Without a word, Michael furiously pulled off the damaged tire and handed it to Chris, who quickly replaced it with another from the back of the van. From behind us, down the road, the lights kept getting closer, and the whooping and hollering got louder and louder. Then we heard it again, along with a mechanical noise that sounded exactly like a clutch-slipping on a big, red truck with a gun rack in the back window. “Probably some birds or something,” Chris said, completely uninterested as he held the third flashlight where Michael could see. “What the Hell was that?” Michael asked, just before banging his knuckles on the concrete due to a slightly stripped lug nut. Shortly after he said it, we heard a noise that sounded like a pack of wild indians. I had one of my typical “bad feelings” that I used to get, and started urging everyone to get serious so we could get back on the road. Dave and Jeremy, instead of holding the flashlights where Michael could see what he was doing, began having a lightsaber duel with the flashlights in the fog. We all pulled to the side of the road, and all five of our long-haired, dumb-punk asses got out to watch, assist, smoke cigarettes and generally complain.
#Markster shirtless movie
Of course, if you’ve ever seen the movie This is Spinal Tap, you know it never is.Īround 3AM, in heavy fog in the middle of nowhere, the van had flat tire. “It’ll be easier!” he assured us on the walkie-talkie. Instead of taking the interstate like a normal human being, Michael led us through every curve of US17, through rural North Carolina at 2AM. One night in particular, we’d driven out of Jacksonville, North Carolina driving towards Virginia Beach. In most places, people were pretty cool, but there were certainly a few towns where there might’ve been six whole teeth in the lynch mob walking towards us at the gas station or restaurant we’d stopped at. We made enough money to keep ourselves in cigarettes, food, alcohol, hotel rooms and gas for the truck and van, and pretty much the only thing we had to worry about was how we were going to be treated when we got to our next stop. We traveled around quite a bit, and just had a good time with it. Nobody could understand a damn thing I said back then, as my voice was so deep that it simply faded off into the background, only to be heard by animals, those odd people who get sick before an impending earthquake, and people who were so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal. I could sing bass and baritone like nobody’s business, with booming volume that would rattle our drummers cymbals even before the mic was turned on. My voice was a solid octave and a half deeper than what it is now. All 5’9, around 170 pounds of me could walk up on stage and play any instrument that needed to be played - of course, that was limited to guitar, bass and drums at the time. Back at the end of 80’s, when my hair was halfway down my back and I was playing in a Thrash Metal band (we said it was Power Metal - but let’s be honest), I was having a great time.
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