Last Bandit: Book 1 in The Bandits Series

To Hell With The Devil

Chapter 20: To Hell With The Devil ~

"I've been working my ass off to pay for what Magdalaine and Mary Ann will need. Not to give you money for drugs."

"I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

"You've got balls, Russell."

I walk away, infuriated at my housemate for asking me such a ridiculous favor. Never in a million years would I ask for money from somebody to use it on drugs. Never would I even admit to be using it to buy drugs. But Russell, he's in deep. I'm afraid he won't be able to climb out.

His drug of choice is a popular one these days. It's known by some people as the drug that killed Nikki Sixx and pulled him under once again when he awoke from death. It leaves holes in your skin and bruises and makes you look grey and dull. Russell appears no different, and living up to his idol's notorious excess in heroin, he's copying the usual routine of shoot up, buy some more, shoot up again, play bass with the band, and shoot up again until he passes out. His life's teetering over the edge, and so far, none of us have been successful in our attempts to pull him up.

Blue Cocaine is opening up for Skid Row at the Whisky in a few days, which is obviously big for the band. Nick keeps expressing his worry. He's afraid the nervousness of performing before a big time group will send Russell to his death. He thinks Russell will shoot too much, which he has done before in nervous situations, and overdose. The girls told him not to think that way, and that everything will go smoothly. And everyone will come out of it alive. I really hope so.

Nick is very distressed about being the opening act for Skid Row also, but the only drug I've ever seen him do is marijuana. It relaxes him, but the minute he comes down off his high, he's running around, spitting out all the things that could go wrong Friday night. He always comes to my brother and I, asking how he can get Russell and another guy in his band, Paul, to step away from the heroin.

"I don't think it's that easy," my brother says as me and him sit on the steps outside the house. Nick stands behind us on the small porch, strained and worried.

"Well, man, I can't afford to put them both in rehab. Like they're even gonna agree to that anyway."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Johnny, help me out here. You ever done heroin?"

"Yes."

My brother looks at me as if I'm the devil himself, with horns poking through my hair and grainy claws that grip my harmonica.

"Well, how'd you get off of it?" Nick asks me.

"I don't like needles very much."

"Oh, that helps a lot," Nick sighs sarcastically. "I'm pretty sure Russell and Paul aren't afraid of needles."

Before I can say anything, Davey looks at me in awe and asks, "How can you try heroin and never do it again? I heard once you do that stuff, there's no getting off of it."

"I just don't like needles."

"Dude," Davey begins and lets out a single laugh, "you're some kinda breed."

I suppose I am. Lots of people say I'm odd, weird, different. I never know how to respond to them. I've always been this way. I don't know why, but I enjoy being weird too, if that's what I am. I'm just being myself. But I can't quite understand how me not getting hooked on heroin brands me as strange. Perhaps it's just not my thing, just like needles aren't my thing. And I mean, the high was very nice, but it sure wasn't worth it. I don't like needles at all.

The conversation ends after Nick sighs and goes back into the house. I return to my harmonica, playing a tune my father taught me. Davey recognizes it and hums along.

July fourth has passed now, and Mary Ann is currently seven, almost eight months pregnant. There's only two more months to go until Magdalaine comes along. All is well with her and her mother, which gives me one less thing to worry about, not that it'd be a burden to worry about them. I still worry about them anyway. I worry about them every god damn day.

I've got to work at the garage everyday now to raise up money for all the things Magdalaine will need, like a crib, bottles, food, clothes, diapers, and all that stuff babies have to have.

Nine in the morning until six or seven in the evening are my hours. Then band practice for while, or a show if Alexandra has us booked somewhere. We've played the Troubadour, the Cathouse just around the corner, Club With No Name, Gazzarri's with the dancing girl competitions in between sets, and the Coconut Teaszer, where we headlined on a Monday night and played to a crowd of about fifty people; plenty. I think we're coming a long way. We've played a good variety of shows.

Still, we're not far enough to be looked at by record companies. I imagine it will be fairly difficult to sign a deal with any company. We're not mainstream rock, or similar to the other bands that play the Sunset Strip circuit. We have bluesy guitars and our friend George on piano and sometimes I play my harmonica.

The problem is that they're not out looking for a band like us. They don't know who The Dogs D'Amour are. They've forgotten about The Faces. The Rolling Stones are one and only, and I'm sure they think no other band could look to them as influences and sound even slightly similar. They want the Motley Crues, the Pretty Boy Floyds, the Guns N' Roses'. No disrespect to those bands, which I like just as much as the next guy. But where's the bands like The Dogs? The Quireboys? Even Cinderella with their bluesy licks? Where's the bands that don't copy the big names, the ones that have their own sound, ones that sound different from the rest?

Music doesn't have an expiration date. It'll never die out. Sometimes, when a new sound comes along, the others are almost forgotten about. But perhaps that's just what I'm seeing.

Disco. What ever happened to disco? It was eaten up by the eighties. Mhm.

I wish Mary Ann could see The Bandits live. That's what I really wish. But she's got these bad headaches that come to her all the time, and they rob her from doing things. She stays in the house a lot, either me or Athena, who has been a huge help, going out to get her what she needs. She looks on the bright side, though. For a pregnant woman who doesn't always feel well and constantly craves the taste of fried chicken among a billion other things, she's very upbeat. She's a very strong woman.

Just the other day, she phoned her mother for the first time since she sneaked away. Mrs. Montgomery cried and forgave her and begged her to come home. But Mary Ann refused. She told her mother she will not leave me. Then when she hung up, I could see the struggle in her face as she stared at the floor, and when I told her she could go back home if she wanted to, she told me Magdalaine wouldn't go about her life without her father. Frankly, that's a good thing. I don't think I'd be able to survive without Mary Ann beside me or my child under my watch too. I sound selfish, which I am when it comes to people who make me feel right and safe and good. I know I can't live without them.

I've gathered up all my might and strength to decrease my intake on drugs and alcohol, especially the pills, for my family. It didn't take long at all for Mary Ann to realize what I was doing with the narcotics, and of course, she was quite devastated, which made me feel like an asshole for disappointing her. So I've tried to put an end to it all, but it sure is difficult when people just come up to me and offer something. And then when I tell them no, they reduce the price, making me feel like I have to take the deal. But then Mary Ann and Magdalaine magically come to mind, and I fully reject the offer with this sudden burst of strength I get because I can't be doing this. I'm going to be a father. The head of a family. I've got to a be good dad like mine was. Not a dad that's addicted to painkillers. Mary Ann and Maggie are the killers of my pain.

I hate to admit it to myself, but I still can't shake the taste of whiskey on my tongue. That's the hardest thing to get off of; that Jack Daniels is just as addicting as the next thing. For me it is, at least. I can't escape from it. I always seem to have a fifth in my hand. And I feel as though I don't get drunk off of it anymore. It's like sipping strong, bitter water to me these days. I only get tipsy after I drink more than one bottle in a day. But a fifth is enough to last me. Drink it slow, savor it while I can.

One of these days, when I'm all cleaned up, when Magdalaine has arrived, maybe when I've got enough money to buy her a pretty ring, I'm going to marry Mary Ann. And I've promised myself that I will do so before I die, before it's too late. I'll wed her and slip a ring onto her gentle finger and kiss her as the priest seals it. I'll marry her if it's the last thing I do.