Lyrics to Funk #49 by The James Gang (1970)
Chad McCann slammed the last can of Bud Ice, crumpled it in one large, work-calloused hand, and tossed it over his shoulder with a belch. Next to him, Langston nursed a Coca-Cola because he didn't believe in drinking - something about his body being a temple for spiritual dojo masters or some shit. Normally, Chad thought people who didn't drink were homos but he'd seen Langston at work. No homo can fight ten dudes at once and win. And do it using only kicks and chops. Langston smashed a guy's skull using the flat of his hand. That alone gained him Chad's respect; Chad loved fighting and anyone who could go was cool by him.
He met Langston a few weeks ago, at the beginning of June. It happened like this. Chad was working on his piece of shit Camrero in the parking lot of the Autozone next to Flip's and guzzling cheap beer as he did it. Lynyrd Skynyrd bumped from the speakers and Chad nodded along to Sweet Home Alabama, stopping to occasionally play drums on the engine with his wrench. The manager, a fat man in a polo shirt, hustled over waving his hands. Chad stopped, squinted to see him better, and took a drink.
"Sir, you can't be doing this here."
He pointed at a sign posted next to the door. NO ON SITE REPAIRS. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED. "Go ahead, call a tow truck," Chad said, "you'll save me the trouble." He turned around and bent over the engine block.
"Listen here, Jethro," the manager said.
Like a shot, Chad spun and snatched the front of his shirt. The manager's face went completely white and his eyes widened with terror. "You listen here, you fat fuck. My car is broken. the. fuck. down. I couldn't move it if I wanted to, and after this, I don't think I want to. So march your fat ass back in there and call whoever you gotta call." He shoved the manager back and then returned to work. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Did he really think his fucking parking lot was so good that Chad would choose to work on his car there instead of in his own driveway?
Sighing, Chad went around the car, reached in, and grabbed a beer from the cooler. He cracked it open and took a long drink. Across the service road leading to the highway, a scrawny guy with blonde hair walked across the empty parking lot of a strip mall. Suddenly, six faggots in black pajamas and face masks came out of nowhere and surrounded him. Uh-oh, looks like someone's gonna get a beatdown.
Chad leaned against the car to watch.
The ninjas closed in on the hapless pedestrian.
That's when things went crazy. The blonde guy started winning. He chopped one ninja in the face,, then hit another with a spinning kick that sent him flying. A third ninja rushed him, and he did a handspring slash backflip thing, then kicked the ninja's legs out from under him. The blonde guy spun, chopped a ninja in the neck, then jumped onto another ninja's back. Chad watched in amazement as dude beat the shit out of all six guys, then walked away like nothing happened. His beer clattered to the ground and he came back to himself. "Hey!" he called. "Hey, wait up!"
He ran after the guy, falling in beside him. "That was the most awesome shit I've ever seen. How did you do that? You were flying and jumping around and goddamn, that was cool."
"Practice and discipline," the guy said in a flat voice.
"Can you teach me how to do that?"
And thus started the power couple known as Changston...or Lhad. Langston taught Chad how to be quick and light on his feet, and in return, Chad taught Langston how to power brawl. They had two different and distinctive philosophies but they were both all about kicking dudes' asses, so they got along. Chad didn't have many friends because he didn't hang with pussies, and Royal Woods had more pussies than a Wal-Mart women's room, but Langston was alright.
Presently, they were sitting on the covered front porch attached to Chad's run-down double wide in the Marsh Run trailer park. It was one of those lazy Saturday afternoons where you have nothing to do and all day to do it and they had been whiling away the time talking for what seemed like hours. When they started out, there was a full 24-pack of Bud Ice at Chad's feet. Now the box was empty and Chad's plastic ashtray overflowed with crumpled cigarette butts. "I'm outta juice," Chad said.
"I'm almost out of Coke," Langston said.
Chad tossed his head back and groaned. "Guess we gotta go on a fucking beer run." He got stiffly to his feet, burped, and scratched his ass. He went in through the battered screen door and staggered down the hall to the bathroom, where he took a fat piss. SItting on the porch, he didn't feel the buzz, but once he was up and moving, the alcohol began to surge through his system. Throwing back his head, he let loose a boozy cry of "Yeeee-haw!" and his spray went wild, painting the walls and commode yellow. He fucking loved being drunk and he loved Bud Ice. He'd piss Bud Ice if he could.
Tucking his prick away for later (when Lindsey Sweetwater came over), Chad zipped up his jeans and went into his messy bedroom. A giant Confederate flag covered the bay windows - that way everyone passing by could see it - and posters of Hank Williams Jr., Dale Earnhardt, wolves, and Indians stared loftily down from the faux wood paneled walls. Chad popped off his shirt and dug through the dresser. "Aha," he said and pulled out a Confederate flag tank top. He pulled it on and went back outside. "Alright, c'mon. I wanna hurry up and get back."
He and Langston slid into the '79 Trans Am that Chad affectionately called "fucking whore." He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine sputtered. "Come on, you fucking whore," he spat. He pounded the dashboard with his fist.
"Anger only muddles the clear waters of the soul," Langston said cryptically.
"Okay, Mr. Myagi."
The engine caught and roared to life. "Ha. Chad one, karate fag zero." He threw the car into reverse and backed into the street at an angle, the tires tearing up a corner of the lawn. The back end nearly clipped a little blonde girl with pigtails, and he jumped back in alarm.
"Hey, jerk!"
Chad pulled up alongside her. It was just what' know, one of the little incest kids who lived in that big sex cult up the street. Chad belched in her face and she crinkled her nose. "You're such a pig."
"At least I don't give my daddy rusty trombones."
The little girl gaped in horror. "I don't either."
"That shit stain on your upper lip says your lie, girl."
She quickly wiped her mouth and Chad laughed. He hit the gas and peeled off, leaving her to literally choke on his dust. "Stupid bitch," he said. He slammed an 8-track into the player mounted on the dash, and loud, guitar-heavy southern rock blasted from the speakers.
I sleep all day, out all night
I know where you're goin'
I don't think that's a-actin' right
You don't think it's showin'
Chad pressed the pedal to the floor and pounded the ceiling with his fist. "Yeah! Whoo! Beer! Fuck yeah!"
The Trans Am surged forward with a low vroom and Chad cut off a pick-up truck. "You're going to get us killed," Langston pointed out.
"Beer!"
"Slow down."
"BEER!"
Flip's appeared on the right. Chad changed lanes without using his turn signal, and a sports car behind them slammed on its brakes. The Trans Am sailed across two lanes of traffic, thumped over the curb, and took out Flip's mailbox. Chad spun the wheel and the car fishtailed back and forth. Langston held onto the handhold and looked like he was going to pass out. The car straightened out and Chad parked at the pump. "Safe and sound," he said. He reached into his jeans, took out his wallet and snapped it open. "And you thought...oh, goddamn it!"
"What?" Langston asked.
"I'm outta cash. You got any money?"
Langston shook his head. "No, I'm out too."
"Son of a bitch," Chad sighed. He tossed his wallet over his shoulder. "Guess we gotta go to the fucking bank." He threw the car into drive and peeled out.
A-jumpin' up, fallin' down
Don't misunderstand me
You don't think that I know your plan
What you tryin' to hand me?
The First National Bank of Royal Woods was on way the fuck on the other side of town. Chad weaved in and out of traffic and got there in ten minutes. He was just slowing down to pull into the entrance when an armored car shot out in front of him, rocked on its wheels like it was going to tip over, and sped off. A security guard ran out of the bank with his gun drawn. "They just took everything!" he screamed.
Chad's jaw dropped.
His beer money.
"Oh, fuck that," he said.
He threw the Trans Am into drive and took off after the armored car. "Do you think this is a wise course of action?" Langson asked.
"They have my beer money," Chad said. He jerked the wheel and swerved around a pick-up truck. The armored car was ahead, hugging the curb. Chad cut a Buick off and fell in behind his quarry.
"Okay," Langston said. "Let's do it."
"Damn right," Chad said.
The armored car hung a sharp left, nearly running over an old lady, and Chad followed. A half mile later, it veered across the highway and climbed an interstate onramp. It merged with traffic and Chad gunned the engine to catch up.
Being a Saturday, traffic was light. The car barreled down the center lane, gaining speed, and Chad stomped the pedal all the way to the floorboard. After a few moments, he pulled abreast of the car. "Take the wheel."
Chad climbed out of the window and Langston shifted into the driver seat. He crouched on the doorframe, arms out on either side for balance like the muscular and tattooed wings of an avenging angel. The wind lashed his face, filling his lungs and clogging his nose, and his baseball cap ripped from his head, flying away and being sucked under the big wheels of a Peterbilt. Chad turned his head away from the wall of wind and grimaced.
That was his favorite hat.
Now he was mad.
A gap of five feet separated the armored car and the Trans Am. Below, the pavement rushed past like a rushing torrent. Chad scanned the car's flank and spotted a metal handhold next to a narrow, man-sized door opening onto the cargo hold. "Get closer," he called over his shoulder.
Langston manueved the Trans as close to the car as he could. Chad reached out, grabbed the handhold, and leapt across the gap, his feet landing on the running board. Langston fell back and got in behind the car.
Holding tight, Chad scooted closer to the door, fumbled at the latch, and pulled it open. He slipped in, and it banged closed behind him.
In the cargo hold, three men in bandit masks and black and white striped shirts knelt around a literal treasure chest filled with loot.
My beer money!
"Money, money, money," one of the robbers muttered as he dipped his hands into the chest. Chad imagined it was his money that fag was fondling, and got mad.
Stepping forward, he thrust his finger at the perp. "Hey, ass breath!"
The bandits all looked up at him.
"That's my beer money."
Sneering, the bandits got up and fanned out, each one bent at the waist to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. They reminded Chad of that fucked up things from Lord of the Rings. Goldberg? Golddust?
One of the bandits whipped out a blackjack and licked his fuzzy yellow teeth. Another one cracked his knuckles. Another still punched his palm.
"You guys really want to do this?" Chad asked.
The bandits came at him.
"Guess you do."
Chad threw a punch and caught one of them in the chin, whipping his head to the side. The one with the blackjack rushed forward and swung his weapon, and Chad ducked, He brought his knee up and rammed it into the guy's guts, knocking the air from his lungs. One somehow got behind him and threw his arms around him in a bear hug. Chad tossed him over his shoulder, and he landed on the chest, snapping the lid.
A bandit suckerpunched Chad from the side,making him stumble. A second put him in a headlock and doubled him over. Chad made a fist and drove his elbow back, connecting with his stomach. The bandit's grip loosened but did not break. Chad did it again and again until the bandit's arms went limp and he was able to free himself. Three bandits rushed him, and with a primal cry of rage, Chad speared one into the wall, knocking him out. Someone grabbed the back of his shirt, and Chad hit him with a spinning roundhouse kick. The attacker flew back and crashed into the double doors at the rear. They popped open and, screaming in terror, the guy fell out, landing on the hood of the Trans Am, which was right on the armored car's ass. He rolled off, hit the pavement, and disappeared under the tires of a big rig.
The asshole with the blackjack hit Chad across the back, and Chad went down. Suddenly, feet slammed into him from every direction. He covered his face with his arms and drew his knees to his chest to protect himself as best he could. He closed his eyes and waited for the killing blow, but at that moment, Langston rammed the Trans Am into the armored car. A shudder went through it and the bandits staggered and stumbled. Langston did it again, a terrible scream of metal on metal filing the world, then swung the car around the outside.
In an instant, the armored car was spinning like the ground was made of ice. One guy flew out the back and tumbled over the concrete retaining wall, and another slid across the floor, grabbing onto a strap. His legs jutted out the open doors and his face was a mask of pallid horror. Chad hit the far wall and stars burst across his vision.
The armored car smashed through the wall and for a breathless moment, it was falling. The nose angled downward and the ass end lifted until gravity forced the rear doors closed. Chad tumbled head over heels and hit the wall separating the cargo hold from the cab. A bandit landed next to him and let out a blood curdling scream. The chest flew through the air and landed on his head, crushing it like a grape.
A second later, the car hit the pavement and a great, earth-shattering jolt ran through it: The front end crumpled into the cab, killing the driver, and the engine exploded, spraying the cyclone fence along the gravel shoulder of the highway with shrapnel. The car teetered for a moment, then landed on its side. The cargo hold was a jumble of wreckage and bodies. A piece of metal moved, and Chad sat up, bloodied and coughing. He got dazedly to his feet, hunched to keep from hitting his head, and picked his way over the debris. Cuts, bruises, and abrasions crisscrossed his body, and when he put weight on his left foot, hot pain snaked up his leg. He leaned against the wall to rest, and that's when he saw the chest lying on its side, stacks of bills, coins, and traveler's checks heaped around it. He went over, pulled a bank slip from his pocket, and jotted down his name, then took a twenty.
Outside, traffic had come to a standstill and sirens rose in the distance. Above, a gaping hole in the wall trimming the overpass marked the spot where the car crashed through.
The Trans Am pulled up in the wrong lane, and Chad lurched over. He slipped into the passenger seat and threw his head back. Horrified motorists surrounded the armored car, some on their phones and others trying to find the driver in the twisted mass of metal the cab had become. "Let's go get that beer," Chad said.
"If anyone has ever earned one," Langston said, "it's you."
"Damn straight."
Pulling a U-turn, Langston set a course for Flip's.
And beer.