The Roadhead Chronicles
By Mike Marino
Sample Chapter: Where Cool Was Born
Page 1 of 8
No one saw it coming. No one heard it coming. No one could utter a sound until it was too late.
The horrific flash of light, and blast of heat ate them alive, as flesh evaporated, making the dead disappear in a vaporized instant while the living stumbled numb through the rubble that once was their city, their life, their future. They walked slowly now, quietly, a ghost population of broken spirits peering out from empty, hollow, irradiated eye sockets and watched in pure disbelief as the debris filled cloud mushroomed and rose high above the gray landscape on celestial wings of pure, mad and atomic science. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. 1945. The atomic jaws of a hungry hell had opened wide and swallowed them whole. Nuclear nightfall settled over the Land of The Rising Sun, Fascism fell on it's narcisstic, Aryan face as underground bunker bullet took out the addled Adolph, and the swastika exploded and landed in a heap of rubble onto the streets below. Germany had been delivered an Allied goose step to the groin and Mussolini was turned into unrecognizable hamburger as he hung upside down on a pole swinging in the Italian breeze.
The war to end all wars had came to an abrupt end in a nuclear blast of energy that would usher in a new age. A positively political post war era that would see the downfall of old enemies and witness the rise of new ones. The gates of the Buchenwald's were now open, but the prison gates of the new Soviet state were beginning to close tight in secret Siberia behind the concrete veil of an Iron Curtain, and across the watery expanse of the Churchillian Atlantic Ocean, the former colonies were giving hard birth to a new American empire of temporary peace and prosperity. It would be a time bomb of right/left politics and youthful rebellion in music, movies and attitude. It was an age of fins and chrome,
drive in movies and drive in restaurants, it was the birth of a generation that would revel in a neon nighttime world where pop culture and chrome would meet asphalt and art. It was the birth of the Roadhead Generation.
1946. Johnny came marching home, and Rosie the Riveter was only too happy to see him. He put down his rifle, and she laid her
tool belt on the floor and the baby boom was on. It was time to rock, roll and rule. It was an age of atomic energy, burgeoning jet propulsion technology, rocket science and the good old fashioned asphalt blood sport of drag racing where nukes and nitro fired our fertile imaginations, and the result was
a greased up and gassed up semi-fabulous Fifties. The decade was locked and loaded and
ready to fire a warning shot over society's head. That shot, fired point blank, would find it's mark, and kick some serious asphalt with mechanized machismo with a show of motor, muscle,
and heavy-metal. St. Georges's in rolled up t-shirts, fighting, slaying, polishing, loving and worshipping, all at the same time for God's sake, Detroit's finely tuned, fire breathing dragons that rolled off the assembly lines 24 hours a day, non-stop.