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Stunning review of Dimebag Bandits from the UK

This review is from: Dimebag Bandits (Kindle Edition)

A wonderful read which reminded me of True Detective in its laconic style, warts and all characters and edgy drama, albeit told from the other side of the badge. The main characters engage you first, before the story really gets going, but get going it does along back roads of speed freak heists, crooked ministers and child porn, dealing with difficult subjects without being gratuitous or overly sentimental. Another thing worthy of mention is how the environment, often overlooked, plays an equally important part in the book, being used to great atmospheric effect but also shaping the characters and their actions.
It’s a cliché free read about the low rent drug scene. There's no glamour here, but there is warmth amongst the pain and darkness. Even people from this world can have a moral compass and this one faces north.

Excerpt from the Novel Dimebag Bandits in the form of a short story called, Angry Giant Under the Bridge. You can get the entire novel on Amazon.com /http://www.amazon.com/Dimebag-Bandits-Craig-Furchtenicht-ebook/dp/B00EGPMKEY/

Angry Giant Under the Bridge

I was about twelve years old when it happened. Todd was almost a year older than me, but in the same grade in school, would have been thirteen. It was toward the end of the summer before our first year in junior high. We both lived in the unincorporated berg of Cedar Ridge, which had little to offer two adolescent boys in the way of entertainment. Every other diversion from the mundane had been exhausted weeks ago. That day we had only our bicycles, an empty ice cream bucket and the entire day to waste.

For some unexplainable reason Todd picked up a stick and poked it into a pile of dog crap in the grass behind the my folk's shed. It was something only an immature and extremely bored thirteen year old boy would be compelled to do. He proceeded to chase me around the yard, threatening to brand me with his smellier version of the mark of Zorro. Another stick was drawn and another dog pile was disturbed. Fortunately for the both of us a truce was declared before either of us had landed a direct hit.

We spent the better part of the next hour, also for reasons unbeknownst to us, filling the bucket from the unlimited supply of dog waste in the neighborhood. Then with half a bucket of dog shit and the rest of the afternoon to kill, the two of us peddled our bikes toward the interstate.

It was a good three mile ride to I-80. We regularly made the trip, sans bucket-o-poop, whenever we had a few dollars to spare and a lapse in parental supervision. The latter came more frequently than the former in those days. The KOA motor camp behind the truck stop was just the thing to feed a bored young soul. A few dollars lasted quite a while in the beat up arcade games that lined the back wall of the camp office.

We never made it to the game room that day. It was a blistering afternoon and even young men have their limitations. As we reached the bridge Todd pulled over and carefully leaned his bike on the guardrail, minding not to spill the rancid cargo that we had reluctantly taken turns balancing on our handlebars for nearly three miles.

“I can't do it anymore,” Todd declared, breathing heavily. He licked the beads of sweat from his upper lip and leaned over the rail. “Too hot for me.”

I joined him and watched the semis and cars appeared from under the bridge. Looking straight down, the vehicles seemed to come out of nowhere. One after the other they came from beneath the bridge, sometimes in bursts of three or four, sometimes nonstop for minutes. The smell of diesel exhaust and road dirt blew up in our faces. The soles of our shoes vibrated as the massive big rigs rumbled through.

“We're almost there,” I declared, nodding to the other end of the bridge. The truck stop sat just a few hundred feet beyond the off ramp. “Let's at least get a pop or something for the ride back.”

“Nah. Let's just rest here for a while,” Todd replied. “I ain't got any money anyways.”

“You made me come all the way up here for nothing?” I was in disbelief. “Goddammit, Todd! Why didn't you say something? I only brought like three bucks. I could have gone home to get a couple more for you.” I picked up my bike and started across the bridge.

“Where you going?”

“I'm gonna go get a damn pop. I'm thirsty as hell and I'm not riding home without getting something to drink first.” I rode toward the truck stop, peddling halfheartedly.

“Hold on a second. I'll go with you.”

I looked back and saw that Todd had his pants halfway down and his back arched. He stopped the bike and stared. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I'm taking a piss. What's it look like?” Todd stood with his back to me, alternating the stream of pee between the vehicles below and the bucket. Flies that had found their way to the growing stench buzzed away from the bucket momentarily with each spray. When the stream was redirected the flies reclaimed a stronghold on their new find. “Hold on. I'm almost done.”

“How does so much juice come out of such a tiny pickle?”

“Ha ha. You're a funny one, Woodson,” He zipped up and flipped me the bird. “Now what were you saying about buying me a pop?”

I giggled at his own joke. It wasn't really my joke, though. I had overheard it from one of the high school guys, razzing his buddy in the bathroom at the Pizza Hut in Cameron. I'd been waiting a month for the right opportunity to repeat it. “Why should I buy you anything, Hillyer?”

Todd ran to the opposite side of the bridge and looked out. There was a rare lull in the oncoming traffic. Only a lone car could be seen in the distance. A slow one from the looks of it, chugging along as if it were the only one on the road. In a sense it was. He watched intently as the car approached and then walked back to the other side. He picked up the bucket and grinned. “Because I'm gonna blow your mind.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed as Todd dangled the bucket over the rail and took aim.

Todd dismissed my concern with a wave and shushed me. The car vanished beneath the overpass. The hum of the slow moving car tires altered as the sound echoed off the supports below. A hollow whooshing as it glided through and then the screeching of tires as the brakes locked up.

“Holy shit! I nailed it!” Todd yelled. He mounted his bike and started peddling. “Kori, come on!”

I stood frozen in horror as the vehicle came to a stop. The occupant of the car slowly climbed out and I thought to myself, we are so dead. Todd peddled back my way and tried to get me moving by pulling on my shirt. I let myself be turned in the direction of home but never took my eyes from the car or the giant that stepped out of it.

“Man! That's gotta be the fattest guy I've ever seen.” Todd's voice must have carried because the fat giant looked in our direction. He pointed at us and screamed something that we could not make out. A fist as big as a catcher's mitt pumped in the air. “Man, we are so dead.”

“What do you mean, we? You did it!”

Before Todd could respond, the man walked half the distance between his car and the overpass. By the time he reached a stopping point his face was flushed and his breath came out in a raspy wheeze that we could almost hear. The fat man eventually regained enough composure to walk until he was directly below us. He threw his hands up in the air and looked up, yelling, “What the fuck was that?”

“Uh... sorry about that, mister. Was an accident.” Todd yelled back.

“Accident, my ass. I'm gonna accidentally clean that windshield with your dead fucking bodies.” Even though it was close to a hundred degrees that day, the fat man was wearing a long sleeved flannel shirt. He rolled up his sleeves and walked to the base of the grassy embankment. To our horror, he began to climb up.

Todd leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Wait until he gets about halfway up, then we bolt. His fat ass will be so winded, he'll never catch us. By the time he makes it back to his car, we'll be gone.”

I looked at my friend, wondering exactly when he had suddenly become retarded. “Are you serious? It's three miles to home. Even if he drives to the Cameron exit and back we're dead. He'll catch up to us before we make it halfway.”

“You gotta better plan?” Todd inched his bike to the end of the bridge so that he was looking directly down at the fat guy as he struggled to climb. He shook his head and smiled. “Maybe we don't need a plan. This guy's gonna have a heart attack before he gets to the top.”

I sidled up between Todd and the guardrail. I peered over the edge and saw the fat giant had made no progress in his attempt to climb the embankment. He was on all fours, wheezing as he grasped at tufts of foxtail and vetch for support. He would make it five feet before his feet would slip on the weeds he had torn from the hill. Then he would slide belly down, back to where he started. Occasionally he looked up at us and cursed, muttering threats to body parts that we did not even know we had. The threats possessed less and less conviction with each failed attempt to ascend the hill.

“Come on, fat ass! We ain't got all day. My mom says I have to be home before supper,” Todd yelled over the edge. He kicked at the shoulder with his toe, sending a scoop of gravel raining down on the guy's head.

“Dude, are you crazy?”

The fat giant gave up on the climb and waddled back to his car. The spot where he had made his attempt looked as though a weed eater had been through it. I started to pedal away. When I realized that Todd was not behind me I stopped and circled back.

“Todd. Come on, man. Let get out of here,” I said, almost begging.

Todd ignored me as the fat man squeezed back into his car. He slammed the door shut and started the motor. By this time the shit water that covered the entire front of the vehicle had started to dry. He turned on his wipers which only succeeded in smearing the mess in an even layer across the glass. He climbed back out of the car and grumbled as he unrolled the right sleeve of his shirt.

“Oh, man. What's he doing?” I whispered. It had not occurred to us that the fat giant had no idea what the brown sludge was that covered his windshield. We watched in amazement as the guy reached over the hood to wipe the glass with his sleeve.

“Time to fly,” Todd yelled, laughing wildly. I furiously pumped my bike pedals, trying desperately to keep in pace with my friend.

As we peddled away I swear that we could hear the fat man screaming at the top of his lungs. His voice was hoarse and full of disgusted anger. “Shit! Fucking dog shit!”

Dimebag Bandits cover