Sammy agrees to a stunt sponsored by a local radio station; a stunt where he is asked to run through a police action simulator. Two DJs dawn protective eyewear and run through the simulator first. One is shot twice, by sixty-five mph projectiles. The other is shot, unmercifully, by a damsel packing heat.
Humbug Sammy is shown a routine traffic stop. A matron driver and her fellow passenger are thrust in front of his frog-goggled eyes.
Cledus looks at the teli-prompter. “You knowst why I stopped you?” He asks the driver of the car.
“Can’t you find something better to do!” The guy shouts in Cledus’s face.
Slight movement in the vehicle catches the frontier gunman’s eye.
“Place up yur dukes!” Cledus demands. “Lets me see yur hands!”
“Why don’t you do something more productive?” The other fellow asks.
“Throws them in ta air!” Cledus urges again.
Cledus sees the damsel draw her piece and aim it partially sideways out the window of the small vehicle. Before she squeezes the trigger, Cledus puts two slugs through the matron’s shrouded head.
Both DJs brag about the rock star’s shooting skills, although their voices contain hidden mockery—they believe he made a couple of lucky draws.
The real Cledus Beaumont steps forward and confronts scenario two: a showdown with four intoxicated bikers.
“Seathe your cock loaders!” Cledus screams.
“Oh…It’s Barney Fife,” one of the burly men heckles.
This time the heckling dude draws first. Cledus shoots two of the bikers, before diving behind a make-shift barrier. Plastic bullets whiz over his head. He aims again, fires the piece, and a round strikes the burly biker in the forehead—for a spot-on kill. Each DJ's mouth falls open, when Sammy pops the fourth biker in the jugular, right before a practice bullet strikes the entertainer's thigh.
“Well…The listener who sent in four kills and one leg wound for Sammy Moore is now in our drawing for two Street Posse Concert Tickets, as well as two backstage passes. In the small bucket of winners, Sammy Moore will draw one lucky winner.”
Cledus wants to duel again. The simulator punches a hole in his mind and jerks him back through the time knothole to the adrenaline loving desperado.
He corners a policeman in charge and asks, “Who do I graze ta gets me one of tos simlators?”
An acting representative tells him, “I don’t think they sell such a training device to civilians. It is strictly for police training, and soon will be introduced to military personnel.”
“Tevryone has a price.”
The other man hands Sammy the manufacturer’s card and uses body language to indicate, ‘I’d like to prove you wrong!’
A DJ grabs a hold of Cledus’s arm.
“Sammy, buddy. Can you talk on air about that marvelous shooting?”
“We can plug your new album.”
“Since yu put it tat way…Dude, spots me a chair!”
“Just sit right there and speak into the Mic.” DJ 1 flicks his fingers.
“Terry, why don’t you hook up our friend here.”
A radio intern opens the loop in a mini-microphone and places it over the rock star’s head. A couple of seconds later, DJ 2 flicks a switch, and says, “We are live, here at Morgan Police Training Center, with mega recording artist Sammy Moore. This is Cajun Man and Slow Poke…And I just have to ask Sammy…How did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Video games,” Cledus can only think to say.
“The infamous Doom?”
“Only for da challengers.”
Both DJs laugh, then Slow Poke says, “Sammy, you must own a gun?”
“Not for a spell. But my watchers tote pea shooters.”
“You’re kidding…You don’t even have a piece?”
“I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley if you were packin’ some heat!” Cajun Man says, before adding, “You are a cocky SOB, aren’t you?”
“Do I have sucker written on my forehead?”
“Don’t answer that, Slow Poke.”
Cajun Man chuckles with an incoherent response.
“So…You’re working on a new album. When will the sucker be out?”
“The Posse is walloping steady on the bastard.”
Both DJs laugh at the comment, in stereo.
“I’d say da cut will be hashed for Christmas.”
“Perfect stocking stuffer for our listeners,” says Slow Poke.
“I’m sure quite a few women will want it slid under their tree,” adds Cajun Man.
All three men burst out laughing at the implied sexual innuendo.
“What’s the name of the new album going to be…You know yet?” Asks Cajun Man.
“The Lynch Mob.”
The DJs are content with the answer that sounds like a Street Posse Cliché’.
“Sammy…You were on quite a long hiatus. What brought you back?”
“All our frolic’n fans!”
“Great alliteration, Quick Draw!” Slow Poke cajoles.
Cajun Man flicks a switch sending shouts of MOORE! across hidden airwaves. People raise their hands in their cars, at their workplaces, and in shower stalls. They even raise their hands to the air in the middle of having sex, adding their own rousing tributes to Moore.
After the salute fades, Slow Poke says, “Well…We wish you luck, Sammy, and look forward to seeing you out on tour. Big Sam!”
“Gracias, mi amigos.”
“This is Slow Poke, and you have just heard Sammy Moore on PK 103.5.”
Off the air, Cajun Man says, “Come on Sammy…You’re just after some poontang!”
Cledus smiles, like Sammy Moore use to.
Cledus fails to earmark one of Sammy’s groupies, returning for a second round, when hurt and anger storms across the hoe’s heavily done up face.
“You remember my name?”
“Maybe this will jog your memory!”
The lass drops her top, as if she thinks Peg and Meg can be readily identified.
“Very nice,” Cledus remarks, while he thinks to his self, I wonder if this groupie is one of Sammy’s cockteasers?
“It’s April!” The gal exclaims, before she is escorted away by security.
A new curvaceous woman takes the woman’s place.
Cledus checks his watch, and jokes, “Yes…Indeedie, tis almost April.”
He raises a bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips and lets an enticing damsel partly undress him. After several minutes and a few sexual favors given to security, April returns. She is half high and professes to want to suck Sammy’s straw. No one will believe the woman, that in the present—her mouth hardly contains him.
It is a rough morning. The new Sammy Moore wakes up with a hangover, only to discover three females in various forms of undress surround him. April rests in another girlfriend’s arms. A third broad lay still, with legs spread, as if she attempts to incubate holy seed.
Cledus cranks up a stereo and finds Maroon 5. He feels bad in having had to ask security to usher April away for an attitude adjustment. He wonders if a few of his bodyguards taught her a lesson, or if the woman’s drug intake will end up being his best self-defense. Or if days later the woman’s body will be found floating in a river, tainted by the sexual footprint of an unidentifiable imposter.