Hello and welcome to another Saturday Nonsense and Chaos post. Today a chance find leads to the discovery of an ancient gem which has been resurrected.

No! Not that kind of gem. I wish.

I was scrolling through my You Tube watch list and came across a full movie starring the wonderful man in the main header, Vincent Price. The movie is The House On Haunted Hill and I asked Becca if she had seen the original. She said no. That led to us watching the movie and being scared out of our popcorn.

This being filmed way before cgi it gave us more scares than The Woman In Black and that was a genuine scare fest.

So, leading on from Vincent Price I started to tell Becca about how I would watch the B Movies that BBC 2, (British Channel) would show on a Saturday night when I was a teenager.

Que searching through You Tube again when I came across a playlist called Rockabilly Red.

Yep, the woman got it right. Scary stuff. Cheesy stuff but what the heck I love it.

So for your perusal I present the opening of Rockabilly Red The Legend.

Rockabilly Red
(An urban legend)


Adele Marie Park

The night is coal black and sultry like a warm Southern breeze. Waves of heat turn the asphalt into an undulating ocean. The once solid road under your wheels becomes a mirage and you blink sweat. Then you realise you are not alone. You see the shiny chrome hubcaps trimmed with white, then the double headlights and the silver grinning grill. Behind the wheel is a dude with a pompadour of slicked back red hair, wearing mirror sunglasses. You frown and keep checking your mirror. You think you are seeing things, an image from an age of greatness when a King ruled from Memphis. You look in your mirror again, startled as music blasts into your eardrums with as much force as a heat seeking missile. Rockabilly beats and guitar riffs so sharp you check yourself for abrasions, pour over you, cut into your fear like cheese wire around your neck. Then you realise with a sweat drenching fear what is happening.

The road exists no longer, for you my friend are on the river Styx. The name of the hell chariot is little Red Rooster, and the ferryman is Rockabilly Red.

With a roar like a dragon who is seriously pissed off, little red rooster cruises at your side. You are frozen. Body a block of ice. Rockabilly red and his steed are glowing with an eerie phosphorescent light which allows you to see dead white fingers tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel. One finger wears a ring with a crown engraved onto it. Spectral light shines on his black leather jacket turning creases blue which echo the glow from the radio, tuned to a station that no longer exists.

In this moment of sudden reality which has slowed to a crawl, Rockabilly Red turns his head towards you and smiles. You scream because you know he is dead, a thing which shouldn’t exist, then you scream again because you know you’re going to be bowing your head before St Peter and you wonder how many seconds of this crazy nightmare you have left. You are still wondering as Little Red Rooster and Rockabilly Red run you off the road in a screech of triumphant ghoulish music and brakes.

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