F.T.W.
RISE OF THE ANARCHY MARCH
RISE OF THE ANARCHY MARCH
F.T.W. dives deep into the bleak and post-apocalyptic nation formerly known as the United States of America. When the ideology of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was taken for granted, those same rights were infringed. In the near future, the republic has been torn apart into sovereign countries by politics, greed, power, and religion, and has become nothing more than a bedtime story to the children of the Prominent Municipality. The horrors that ensued from decades of raging wars between the upper and lower classes gave rise to a punk brigade known as the Anarchy March. They fight to overturn their corrupt government’s tyranny on humanity and to save the world from the status quo.
REVIEWS
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“LIPPITT HAS CREATED A WORLD SOMEPLACE BETWEEN THE ROAD, MAD MAX AND A BOY AND HIS DOG WHERE, DESPITE THE DISSOLUTION OF SOCIETAL CONVENTION, THERE’S STILL ROOM FOR PUNK ATTITUDE AND DIY ETHICS!”
—Ryan Cooper, About.com: A New York Times Company “IF YOU HAVE READ LION’S SHARE AND MET BILLY, YOU ARE SURELY GOING TO LOVE THIS BOOK! A WORTH READING NOVEL, CERTAINLY WILL GIVE YOU A LITTLE OPTIMISM AND SOME BACKBONE.” —Mircea, MPTY Zine “LIPPITT KNOWS HOW TO INTRIGUE HIS READER AND THE STORY JUST SUCKS YOU IN! A TRUE UNDERGROUND AUTHOR, A VOICE OF THE VOICELESS WITH A STREETWISE ATTITUDE, MIXED WITH THE HOPELESSNESS AND ANGER OF THE YOUTH. F.T.W. IS A HARSH REALITY THAT HITS YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE THROUGH AND THROUGH!” —Tim, Anti-Hippie Fanzine |
“DICKENS, CHAUCER, ORWELL, BRILLIANT AND VISCERAL AS ANYTHING WHICH HAS GONE BEFORE IT! LIPPITT HAS CREATED SOMETHING SO FRESH THAT IT IS A RATHER EXCLUSIVE GENRE; THE PUNK ROCK NOVEL!”
—Amy Britton, Repeat Zine “LIPPITT’S SUPPOSITION OF THE FUTURE RINGS WITH AUTHENTICITY! A FAVORABLE COMPARISON TO ORWELL’S 1984!” —Steve Scanner, Scanner zine “VETERAN PUNK NOVELIST RUSS LIPPITT DELIVERS WITH HIS MOST COMPELLING EFFORT TO DATE! F.T.W. INDEED.” —Steven Blush, author/filmmaker, American Hardcore “MAD MAX MEETS GEORGE ORWELL’S 1984 IN ZOMBIELAND! F.T.W. IS AN ENTERTAINING STORY WITH A HORROR/CULT/B-MOVIE STORY LINE AND HEALTHY DOSE OF PUNK ROCK ATTITUDE!” —Christophe, Out of Step Magazine |
EXCERPT
A shiny, mint-condition fire truck wailed, shaking up the quiet night. A team of firefighters sat ready, waiting to arrive at a fire engulfing the distant horizon.
“What’s on today’s watch, sir?” Fitzgerald asked, eager for some action. “Section C, rookie,” the captain replied.
“Section C, sir? That can’t be right. Isn’t that in homestead territory?”
“Boy, you catch on quick. Where did you say you’re from?” Wilson studied Fitzgerald with mock superiority.
“From the West Coast, country of California. Graduated top of my class. Where are you from?”
Wilson put on a fire-retardant mask, ignoring the question.
“Sunny ol’ California. Not so sunny anymore since the Fifth of November, huh? I heard the Povs out there are trying to cross the border. Over my dead body,” Walker stated as he spat thick and brown.
The captain turned around, “Hey, leave him alone!”
“Just breaking in the new kid, captain. Shit, we all been through it.”
He fixated on Fitzgerald, “We are not going into Section C’s fire, just protecting Section A in case the fire jumps.”
Fitzgerald sat silent, gauging the captain’s orders.
The road became increasingly damaged; the fire truck rocked steadily over jagged concrete that suddenly eased and turned into a dirt path continuing as far as the line of sight allowed. An invisible barrier was drawn between the sections, obvious only by the run-down buildings and the broken society leaning precariously toward the pristine domiciles, with their white picket fences and all. The crew reached Section A and pulled to a stop at the border. The blazing fire was burning down a block. It bounced from house to house like a sick and twisted dance, consuming the old wooden shanties built in the late eighties.
“Engage the I.F.S. and I want two men on the hose for secondary douse,” commanded the captain. Two large speakers rose from the tail end of the truck and began to emit a low-level frequency. Two of the four firefighters jumped out of the truck. Wilson began to pull out the fire hose and attach it to a fire hydrant when he noticed Fitzgerald staring off into the distance. He was watching the fire rage in the forlorn community while the destitute frantically helped each other put out fires.
“Hey rookie, you wanna help me with this or you gonna stand there looking stupid all day?!”
Fitzgerald ran back to Wilson and helped him hook up the fire hose. The firefighters stood holding it steady, ready to pounce on the first house in Section A.
An older woman, gripping on to her six-year-old boy whose pallidflesh was sullied and broken open into soot-covered burn marks, staggered up to the firefighters.
“Help us! Help us!” she cried, holding out her young boy. “My baby is still in the house.”
“Do you have a G.R. card?” the staunch captain asked.
“Help me please! My baby!”
“Ma’am, do you have a G.R. card?”
“No! There’s no money! Save my baby!”
The captain returned his focus to the first house in Section A, lowering the pitch level on the speaker.
“We are still human beings! You bastard! For the love of God!”
“Sir, can’t we just—”
“Stand down, rookie! You know the law.”
Her house began to crumble; the flames licked out the windows as the firefighters ignored the shattering edifice and continued to spotlight the first house in Section A.
A large man ran across the street and charged past the firefighters, trying to grab some fire-retardant gear.
“Stop that Pov!” roared the captain.
Wilson pulled out a gun and fired up into the night air. “Get away from that or I promise my next shot will be a lot closer.”
The man turned around and looked at his house immersed in a hellish fire. He grabbed the gear, and without further consideration, Wilson shot the pitiful man in the back.
“You’re monsters! All a yous!” The woman put down the little boy on the curb. “Doyle, I want you to stay here. Mommy will be right back.” She ran into her house, desperate to save her baby.
“This is not right. Back home we help everyone in need.”
“Times have changed. We do our jobs and obey the laws here.” Wilson spotted an orange flame arcing from a house in Section A, aimed the hose, and doused it.
The woman ran out of her blazing house clutching an infant engulfed in flames. She collapsed to the ground.
“No!” Fitzgerald let go of the hose and ran to the woman. He tried to smother the fire raging all over her body. When the smoke cleared, Fitzgerald was left holding a charred baby, frozen in its innocence. Tears streaked clean down his soiled face.
The captain nodded at Wilson; he took aim and shot Fitzgerald in the head. Fitzgerald collapsed on the ground, the charred remnants stuck to his fire-retardant gloves.
“I knew that boy wasn’t gonna last.” Walker spat more chew.
“Hey captain, so much for the California kid.” Wilson spotted another arc threatening the house in Section A and put it out. “Captain? Hey captain?”
“Focus on your job,” the captain said, grinding his teeth.
“Sorry, cap.”
The dazed little boy crawled past Fitzgerald to his baby brother and mother’s side. He peered back at the uniformed firefighters, those who were once his heroes became villainous and unworthy.
A man dressed in black looked down from the top of a brush-covered hill through binoculars. His emotionless, camouflage-painted face blended into his surroundings as he admired the fire that illuminated the raging chaos and burning houses in Section C. He unlatched a handheld transceiver from the side of his hip. “Operation Fire-Top has begun, over.”
“Good work, Private Stripes. Keep this up, and you might be up for a promotion. Report back to base. Over.”
The man took one more look around through his binoculars and saw a swarm of people running out of their burning houses. His hawkish eyes stopped on a little boy sitting next to a blackened figure, holding what was left of its hand. “Not in my Section.”
“What’s on today’s watch, sir?” Fitzgerald asked, eager for some action. “Section C, rookie,” the captain replied.
“Section C, sir? That can’t be right. Isn’t that in homestead territory?”
“Boy, you catch on quick. Where did you say you’re from?” Wilson studied Fitzgerald with mock superiority.
“From the West Coast, country of California. Graduated top of my class. Where are you from?”
Wilson put on a fire-retardant mask, ignoring the question.
“Sunny ol’ California. Not so sunny anymore since the Fifth of November, huh? I heard the Povs out there are trying to cross the border. Over my dead body,” Walker stated as he spat thick and brown.
The captain turned around, “Hey, leave him alone!”
“Just breaking in the new kid, captain. Shit, we all been through it.”
He fixated on Fitzgerald, “We are not going into Section C’s fire, just protecting Section A in case the fire jumps.”
Fitzgerald sat silent, gauging the captain’s orders.
The road became increasingly damaged; the fire truck rocked steadily over jagged concrete that suddenly eased and turned into a dirt path continuing as far as the line of sight allowed. An invisible barrier was drawn between the sections, obvious only by the run-down buildings and the broken society leaning precariously toward the pristine domiciles, with their white picket fences and all. The crew reached Section A and pulled to a stop at the border. The blazing fire was burning down a block. It bounced from house to house like a sick and twisted dance, consuming the old wooden shanties built in the late eighties.
“Engage the I.F.S. and I want two men on the hose for secondary douse,” commanded the captain. Two large speakers rose from the tail end of the truck and began to emit a low-level frequency. Two of the four firefighters jumped out of the truck. Wilson began to pull out the fire hose and attach it to a fire hydrant when he noticed Fitzgerald staring off into the distance. He was watching the fire rage in the forlorn community while the destitute frantically helped each other put out fires.
“Hey rookie, you wanna help me with this or you gonna stand there looking stupid all day?!”
Fitzgerald ran back to Wilson and helped him hook up the fire hose. The firefighters stood holding it steady, ready to pounce on the first house in Section A.
An older woman, gripping on to her six-year-old boy whose pallidflesh was sullied and broken open into soot-covered burn marks, staggered up to the firefighters.
“Help us! Help us!” she cried, holding out her young boy. “My baby is still in the house.”
“Do you have a G.R. card?” the staunch captain asked.
“Help me please! My baby!”
“Ma’am, do you have a G.R. card?”
“No! There’s no money! Save my baby!”
The captain returned his focus to the first house in Section A, lowering the pitch level on the speaker.
“We are still human beings! You bastard! For the love of God!”
“Sir, can’t we just—”
“Stand down, rookie! You know the law.”
Her house began to crumble; the flames licked out the windows as the firefighters ignored the shattering edifice and continued to spotlight the first house in Section A.
A large man ran across the street and charged past the firefighters, trying to grab some fire-retardant gear.
“Stop that Pov!” roared the captain.
Wilson pulled out a gun and fired up into the night air. “Get away from that or I promise my next shot will be a lot closer.”
The man turned around and looked at his house immersed in a hellish fire. He grabbed the gear, and without further consideration, Wilson shot the pitiful man in the back.
“You’re monsters! All a yous!” The woman put down the little boy on the curb. “Doyle, I want you to stay here. Mommy will be right back.” She ran into her house, desperate to save her baby.
“This is not right. Back home we help everyone in need.”
“Times have changed. We do our jobs and obey the laws here.” Wilson spotted an orange flame arcing from a house in Section A, aimed the hose, and doused it.
The woman ran out of her blazing house clutching an infant engulfed in flames. She collapsed to the ground.
“No!” Fitzgerald let go of the hose and ran to the woman. He tried to smother the fire raging all over her body. When the smoke cleared, Fitzgerald was left holding a charred baby, frozen in its innocence. Tears streaked clean down his soiled face.
The captain nodded at Wilson; he took aim and shot Fitzgerald in the head. Fitzgerald collapsed on the ground, the charred remnants stuck to his fire-retardant gloves.
“I knew that boy wasn’t gonna last.” Walker spat more chew.
“Hey captain, so much for the California kid.” Wilson spotted another arc threatening the house in Section A and put it out. “Captain? Hey captain?”
“Focus on your job,” the captain said, grinding his teeth.
“Sorry, cap.”
The dazed little boy crawled past Fitzgerald to his baby brother and mother’s side. He peered back at the uniformed firefighters, those who were once his heroes became villainous and unworthy.
A man dressed in black looked down from the top of a brush-covered hill through binoculars. His emotionless, camouflage-painted face blended into his surroundings as he admired the fire that illuminated the raging chaos and burning houses in Section C. He unlatched a handheld transceiver from the side of his hip. “Operation Fire-Top has begun, over.”
“Good work, Private Stripes. Keep this up, and you might be up for a promotion. Report back to base. Over.”
The man took one more look around through his binoculars and saw a swarm of people running out of their burning houses. His hawkish eyes stopped on a little boy sitting next to a blackened figure, holding what was left of its hand. “Not in my Section.”
Webster’s Dictionary defines Lion's Share as: all, or nearly all; the best or largest part. Seeking this is a greaser named Billy, who thinks the world owes him something for the hand he was dealt. Billy and his anarchy causing social club, fueled by drugs, gangs, and rock and roll, take the reader deep into the hot rodding underworld. Always in trouble, Billy continually looks for the next big rush, until he meets a girl that changes his outlook on life and love. Torn between his past life and his first love, which path will Billy take to reach his Lion's Share?
REVIEWS
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“I LOVE THIS BOOK! LION’S SHARE RINGS TRUE BUT NOT F’ING BORING OR COMPLAINING. IT’S UNCOMPROMISING!”
—James Merendino, director (SLC Punk) “THE NOVEL IS A WORK OF FICTION THAT THOSE WITH AN INTEREST IN THE WILD ONES, THE WANDERERS, REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE, AND ANY TARANTINO MOVIE WILL ENJOY WHOLEHEARTEDLY.” —Mark Armstrong, Dynamite Magazine “IN THE SPIRITS OF THE OUTSIDERS AND JACK KEROUAC’S ON THE ROAD, I RAISE MY GIN AND TONIC HIGH IN AUTHOR RUSS LIPPITT’S HONOR!” —Outsight Radio, Tom Schulte “THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST GREASER/PUNK/OUTSIDERS BOOK THAT YOU WILL READ.” —Josh, Bad Kat Magazine “A NO-BULLS#%T STORY FILLED WITH STREET FIGHTS, DRUGS, MAYHEM AND PURE ANARCHY!” —Renegade Biker Magazine “FAST PACED AND ENTERTAINING, INTELLIGENT WITH OUT BEING TOO INTELLECTUAL. PUNK ROCK!” —Karl Backman, Summer of Hate “FOUR GREASY STARS!” —Michelle, Go Kat Go |
“AN EMOTIONAL STORY OF A REBEL TEENAGER FILLED WITH FRIENDSHIP, TREASON, SPEED AND ROCK-N-ROLL, A DEFINITELY WORTH READING NOVEL.”
—Mircea, More Punk Then You Zine “SIMILAR TO A MONÈT, LION’S SHARE SHOULD BE ADMIRED AND STUDIED FROM AN OBJECTIVE, SAFE, DISTANCE.” —Hans Shephard Jr., 6DOF Media “COMPARABLE TO THE OUTSIDERS! LION’S SHARE REACHES INSIDE THE ALL TOO REAL BRUTALITY OF TODAY’S JUNGLE WORLD!” —Target Audience Magazine “LION'S SHARE OFFERS A UNIQUE TAKE ON THE UNDERGROUND CULTURE, A RETRO ROMP!” —Robert G. Rose, Aimtv Group “I WAS ENGROSSED IN THIS BOOK FROM START TO FINISH!” —Steve, Street Voice Newsletter “LION’S SHARE IS A 138-MILE-AN-HOUR RIDE ON THE BACK OF A MOTORBIKE!” —Brent “The Catfish” Balinski, Deadbeat Magazine “LIPPITT PAINTS A GRITTY, BUT HOPEFUL TALE OF MISGUIDED YOUTH!” —Rockabilly Revival |
“A DAMN FINE READ FOR ANYONE WHO HAS EVER FELT THE NEED TO REBEL AGAINST EVERYTHING OR ANYTHING.”
—Rick Wills, Devolution Magazine “WHAT A TREASURE!” —Richard, Punk or Nothing Webzine “LIPPITT’S PROSE IS ADRENALINE CHARGED AND FAST-PACED!” —Alison B, Bubblegum Slut Zine “LION’S SHARE GETS A HORNS UP!!! WOULD MAKE FOR AN EXCITING MOVIE!” —Micheal Rys, Global Punk Review “IT HAS NEVER BEEN THIS DANGEROUS TO READ A BOOK.” —Olga Vizcarra, OMGEE Magazine “MOST CONTROVERSIAL BOOK OF THE YEAR! WE’RE WITNESSING THE NEXT OUTSIDERS!” —Heather Phillips, Riders Review “LION’S SHARE IS ONE OF THE TRUEST BOOKS OF IT’S TIME ABOUT YOUNG PEOPLE.” —Eileen Brennan, Silver Screen legend, Golden Globe and Emmy winning Actress and Oscar Nominee “A TOUR-DE-FORCE OF GREASER MAYHEM!” —Voltcase alternative culture magazine |
EXCERPT
“Hey Billy, you said you got my back in the next fight, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“Because here it comes,” Sick Boy said.
He looked up while Bradley pushed his way through the crowd.” Billy smiled at Sick Boy and whispered, “We're going to have fun with this one.”
“Oh shit!” Savanna tried to hide her face behind her drink.
Bradley and his crew walked up to the table. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. What the fuck are you doing here with these losers, Savanna?”
“I’m sorry Bradley, I just–”
“Not another word!” Bradley pointed at Sick Boy, “and you, you fucking crazy bastard. That was my buddy you beat up tonight. I’m going to kill you!”
“A buddy, huh, Bradster? Would you even consider calling him your butt buddy?” The Click laughed.
“Billy, Billy, Billy, now I find you here with my girl. You must have a death wish.”
“We're only friends!”
“Shut up, bitch! Just shut the fuck up and get over here,” he demanded while reaching out and grabbing her by the hair.
Billy stood up and pushed him off of her. Hank, Sick Boy, and Guy rose out of their seats. The band stopped playing and the crowd turned to watch the impending fight.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go with you, Bradley.”
Bradley’s goons got a little bit closer to the table.
“Billy, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Bradley and Billy stood face to face. Bradley faked a punch. Billy didn’t take the bait; he did not flinch. “Your move, Billy!”
He dug into his pocket for the knife. He pushed Bradley back with one hand and swung with the other, gripping the switchblade. Bradley stumbled back and looked down at his chest. His shirt had been sheared and a trickle of blood leached through. He gazed in disbelief at the wild-eyed greaser who stood ready, in attack mode, brandishing the knife. A crazed Sick Boy relished the moment when he saw the emblazoned and bloodied knife.
“That’s my uncle’s knife! You cut me with my uncle’s knife!” Bradley wiped at his bloody chest and stared in shock at the blood on his hand.
“Yeah, that’s not the only thing I’m going to do with it,” said Billy.
Bradley, in shock, took a few unsteady steps forward and took a swing at him.
Savanna jumped in between them. “Stop it! Just stop! Let’s just go home, Bradley,” she begged and looking at Billy she said, “I’m sorry, please put the knife away.”
“You know you don’t have to go.”
“Yes I do.”
Bradley put his arm over her shoulder and one of his friends for support. The cut was deeper than any of them had thought. The blood poured down his chest.
“You’re dead, Billy! The cops will be coming for you! And after you get out of jail, I’m going to kill you! This is not over!” They carried Bradley out the door yelling. Savanna kept gazing back at Billy as he watched her walk out of his life.
The bar’s patrons went back to what they were doing. The band began to play after the lead singer yelled out, “Throw out that square cat!”
Billy and the boys sat back down. “Fuck Billy, you should not have pulled out that knife. The cops are really gonna have a field day with this.”
“Fuck the cops, Hank! And fuck Bradley! If he calls out the Devil he better be prepared to dance.”
“Yeah, that’s right! Take no shit from nobody!” Sick Boy stood up and rushed out the front door.
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“Because here it comes,” Sick Boy said.
He looked up while Bradley pushed his way through the crowd.” Billy smiled at Sick Boy and whispered, “We're going to have fun with this one.”
“Oh shit!” Savanna tried to hide her face behind her drink.
Bradley and his crew walked up to the table. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. What the fuck are you doing here with these losers, Savanna?”
“I’m sorry Bradley, I just–”
“Not another word!” Bradley pointed at Sick Boy, “and you, you fucking crazy bastard. That was my buddy you beat up tonight. I’m going to kill you!”
“A buddy, huh, Bradster? Would you even consider calling him your butt buddy?” The Click laughed.
“Billy, Billy, Billy, now I find you here with my girl. You must have a death wish.”
“We're only friends!”
“Shut up, bitch! Just shut the fuck up and get over here,” he demanded while reaching out and grabbing her by the hair.
Billy stood up and pushed him off of her. Hank, Sick Boy, and Guy rose out of their seats. The band stopped playing and the crowd turned to watch the impending fight.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go with you, Bradley.”
Bradley’s goons got a little bit closer to the table.
“Billy, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Bradley and Billy stood face to face. Bradley faked a punch. Billy didn’t take the bait; he did not flinch. “Your move, Billy!”
He dug into his pocket for the knife. He pushed Bradley back with one hand and swung with the other, gripping the switchblade. Bradley stumbled back and looked down at his chest. His shirt had been sheared and a trickle of blood leached through. He gazed in disbelief at the wild-eyed greaser who stood ready, in attack mode, brandishing the knife. A crazed Sick Boy relished the moment when he saw the emblazoned and bloodied knife.
“That’s my uncle’s knife! You cut me with my uncle’s knife!” Bradley wiped at his bloody chest and stared in shock at the blood on his hand.
“Yeah, that’s not the only thing I’m going to do with it,” said Billy.
Bradley, in shock, took a few unsteady steps forward and took a swing at him.
Savanna jumped in between them. “Stop it! Just stop! Let’s just go home, Bradley,” she begged and looking at Billy she said, “I’m sorry, please put the knife away.”
“You know you don’t have to go.”
“Yes I do.”
Bradley put his arm over her shoulder and one of his friends for support. The cut was deeper than any of them had thought. The blood poured down his chest.
“You’re dead, Billy! The cops will be coming for you! And after you get out of jail, I’m going to kill you! This is not over!” They carried Bradley out the door yelling. Savanna kept gazing back at Billy as he watched her walk out of his life.
The bar’s patrons went back to what they were doing. The band began to play after the lead singer yelled out, “Throw out that square cat!”
Billy and the boys sat back down. “Fuck Billy, you should not have pulled out that knife. The cops are really gonna have a field day with this.”
“Fuck the cops, Hank! And fuck Bradley! If he calls out the Devil he better be prepared to dance.”
“Yeah, that’s right! Take no shit from nobody!” Sick Boy stood up and rushed out the front door.
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