Few things in life are more satisfying than pounding the crap out of your alarm clock. They make the snooze button big so youâll have a nice, easy target for your fist to find at Four Frickinâ Thirty in the morning. And those things are almost indestructible. Almost, but not completely, Brad remembered too late. For three decades that $20 digital brick had sat beside his bed, barking out orders at an ungodly hour. Yesterday it had finally given up the ghost (which was actually satisfying for Brad who had been attempting to kill it every damn morning so had finally succeeded). But this morning a $1,200 smartphone was taking the abuse instead, and the freshly cracked screen showed it clearly wasnât up to the challenge. Well, the day was off to a great start and he hadn't even gotten out of bed yet.
After collecting the disfigured phone from the floor, Brad reached for a t-shirt knowing it was the first and last time he would ever wear it. Same as the last 10,000 shirts. Every C or D-List celebrity that had ever visited his morning radio show, every charity promoting their 5K run or special day, every car dealer that paid him to broadcast from their lot so he could convince his listeners that the best deals were at Uncle Johnnyâs Used Cars. They all had t-shirts and they all wanted him to have one. So, they all went into âthe pileâ where they would all, one day be selected at random as âthe shirt of the day.â 24 hours later they were in âthe other pile,â ready to be donated to the next clothing drive for victims of some disaster halfway across the world.Â
Todayâs shirt, he realized after pulling it on, had been patiently waiting for a full quarter of a century. The sound of John Denver singing was like nails on a Rocky-Mountain-High-Colorado chalkboard to Brad so when the folk music icon had come on Bradâs show to promote his performance of the National Anthem at the opening of the Georgia Dome in 1992⌠well, the shirt his manager handed Brad had somehow ended up near the bottom of âthe pile.â Today, it finally won its 24 hours of freedom and soon it would be in âthe other pileâ â and later rejected by some tsunami victim whoâd lost everything but still had higher standards in t-shirt selection than Brad.
The one benefit of a job that started at 6:00 AM was not having to deal with the worst of Atlantaâs morning traffic. Wait another hour and his 20-minute commute would take an extra 45 minutes or more. They say Atlanta is an hour away from Atlanta and they're usually right.Â
In his early days, Brad would arrive well in advance of the start of the show. That was when he was working hard to make a name for himself. These days, his producer would have been shocked to see Brad behind the microphone before the final seconds of the dramatic show-opening introduction. The intro was almost three minutes long now â full of jingles, TV show clips, animal noises and sounds that couldnât, or at least shouldnât have been described - giving Brad enough time to walk in the door precisely at 6:00, catch the elevator to the 12th floor, inhale the scent of a fresh cup of coffee and sit down in front of the mic. He would put on his BOSE, noise-canceling headphones as the intro finished but wouldnât turn up the volume for another 7 seconds. That allowed him to slightly mute the âGOOOOOOOOOD MORNING ATLANTA!â coming from four feet away on the other side of the desk. How his partner had that much energy this early Every. Freaking. Morning. was still a mystery to Brad. The smell of the coffee helped bridge the gap just enough though.
âThe Brad and Bone Morning Showâ was exactly what many listeners would say they despised about morning radio shows. Loud. Obnoxious. Rude. Back in the 80s, it was fun. Exciting. Unpredictable. Nothing had changed except perceptions and political correctness. The world was different. The radio business was completely different. But âThe Brad and Bone Morning Showâ was preserved in a time-bubble thanks to a few key advertisers who had grown up listening to them, and only wanted to spend their sponsorship dollars on a show that sounded like the world they grew up in. A world where guys still talked about drinking too much, getting to 3rd base with a girl in an elevator and what they were going to do with the fireworks they blew half their paycheck on. Middle-aged men pulling the same old pranks they pulled on the substitute teacher in 9th-grade science class. Juvenile. Worn out. Pitiful. In an overly-sterilized world it stood alone as a filthy oasis for guys who felt demonized when they were just being who theyâd always been. âThe Brad and Bone Morning Showâ was a safe space to enjoy being a man without having to apologize.
John Denver began thanking God that he was a country boy.
Producer Jay was on top of his game today. Less than 30 seconds after Brad had walked into the studio, a recording of John Denver was playing in honor of his t-shirt. And Brad already knew, thanks to years and years of working together, that the fun was only starting. For the next four hours, every time they came out of a commercial break there would be a sampling of a John Denver âclassicâ as the show returned. His âshirt of the dayâ was often the catalyst for an ongoing sub-plot on the show. Undoubtedly, Leaving On A Jet Plane would be saved for the final segment, both as a way to signal the end of the show, and also so they could make insensitive jokes about the singerâs untimely demise when his airplane had crashed into the ocean. Was there enough coffee in the building to survive the morning?Â
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âWooooo! That blew up REAL good!â screamed Bone. A triangle-shaped chunk of fiberglass bearing the name Nitro Z21 soared high into the Atlanta skyline, flashing bright reflections of the rising sun down upon the radio station parking lot and a few hundred spectators.Â
Spinning along the asphalt below, a 300 horsepower Mercury outboard motor collided with a seat that, moments ago, had been mounted directly behind the console of the now-obliterated boat. The remains of a Lowrance fish finder skidded to a stop just barely inside the yellow caution tape separating the crowd from the logo-covered tent where Brad and Bone were broadcasting. Gasoline fumes mingled with the scent of burning carpet and the lingering memories of bass and catfish.
The carnage was from a recently paid off boat that a scorned ex-wife had vindictively taken in her divorce settlement. Her ex-husband took great pleasure in telling everyone that he enjoyed riding that boat more than he ever enjoyed riding her. Sweet karma. The only thing that could have made her day better was if he had been on-board when they blew it up. He wasnât on it but he would certainly see the video of his true loveâs dramatic demise all over social media that day. All his buddies listened to Brad and Bone and none of them would ever miss the Blow-Up Bash. The womanâs grin was wider than any catfish heâd ever pulled out of Lake Lanier.
The 23rd annual Brad and Bone Blow Up Bash was turning out to be one of the best ever. Every summer, against all advice from the Rocket 99.5 attorneys, Brad and Bone would invite listeners to the radio station parking lot to blow stuff up. âYou bring it, we blow itâ was a phrase that every redneck in Georgia knew and looked forward to hearing. Over the years the list of exploded items included everything from watermelons to an old limousine that had seen one-too-many senior proms. Even a chunk of the already-exploded former Georgia Dome had gotten the treatment.
âTrooper Tom⌠did any of that debris land on 285?â Brad segued into the traffic report and set his headphones down. He looked around to see who and what was next in the line stretching to the edge of the parking lot. A slightly-balding guy wearing cut-off blue jean shorts and a âTroyâs Roofingâ t-shirt had brought something nobody had ever brought before in the previous 22 years. He didnât want to blow it up. He wanted to offer his services, along with those of his three-foot-tall catapult. A miniature version of the medieval weapon used to destroy castles. And he had his own explosives.
âWoah. Sorry, guy, but the rules are real clear on this part,â Brad said from under the tent. âYou bring it, WE blow it. With OUR explosives that have been approved by the fire department.â
âThe Fire Chief donât know shit. This stuffâll blow up better than anything youâve ever seen.â
âI bet it will, but Iâm not interested in losing any fingers,â replied Brad. More than a decade had gone by since the last spectator injury and that idiot had nobody to blame but himself. Even the judge had said so. The âvictimâ swore heâd never listen to their show again and his ENT doctor agreed. His hearing was never coming back. The human eardrum was not meant to be that close to an exploding beer keg. The âDo Not Crossâ tape was there for a reason.
âBut the catapult is sweet. Does it work?â asked Bone. âCan you hit a target?â
âAnything ya want âtween 100 and 400 feet,â said the man. âGive me two minutes to set it up and Iâll blow somebodyâs crap sky high.â
âLoad it up!â Bone was now addressing Dyno Dan the Pyro Man. The explosives âexpertâ had been the official munitions handler for the event since the lawyers had convinced management to put at least a small barrier between station personnel and the actual explosives. Dan reached into his supply of explosives, picked out a bundle of TNT about the same size and weight as the guyâs homemade bomb and loaded it into the catapult. The man, who turned out to be the Troy referenced on his t-shirt, started making adjustments as the next person in line, a cute pig-tailed girl who appeared to be around 11 years old, set her Build-A-Bear stuffed friend on the asphalt. Her father, proud smile on his face, pulled her back out of the line of fire.
âYour design?â Bone was admiring the catapult.
âYou better believe it. Itâs a prototype. Take a picture âcause itâll be world-famous soon.â Troy sounded extremely cocky. And a little something else that Brad couldnât quite place. Cagey? Angry? Something was off about this guy.
The big ballsy sound of the radio station promo voice boomed out âBack to the morning show that knows about your motherâs secret tattoo, the Brad and Bone Morning Show!â alerting Brad that the commercial break was over and it was time to put his noise canceling headphones back on. With the monitor speakers in the parking lot, he didnât need the headphones to hear, just to keep hearing after the event. Bone wasnât wearing any. He never did anything smart to protect himself. Why should today be any different?
Brad took a deep breath, caked on a smile and lifted his microphone. âAnd weâre back. Time to blow up some more stuff on the Brad and Bone Morning Show. Our next guest has obviously been preparing for this quite a while. Tell us who you are and what youâve got here.â
Troy tried to grab the mic. âMy nameâs Troy. From Troyâs Roofing. You git a hole in yerâŚâ
Brad pulled the mic back. He leaned and whispered âYou want to do a commercial you need to talk to Rob over there.â He brought the conversation back to blowing stuff up. âThis is a beauty of a catapult youâve got here, Troy. Tell us about it.â
âIt throws stuff,â Troy replied curtly. Heâd spent weeks building his masterpiece in the hope of getting some free promo for his business.Â
âAnd today it will be throwing a bundle of TNT at this little girlâs teddy bear.â Brad turned to face the girl and pointed a microphone in her direction. âWhy in the world do you want to blow up your teddy bear?â
âIâm NOT a LITTLE girl!â the eleven year old retorted. âAnd heâs FUZZY Bear, not teddy bear.â
âOkay, then. So youâve outgrown Fuzzy Bear now?â
âYep! Iâm going to be in sixth grade this year. Daddy says itâs time to grow up so we brought Fuzzy here for a fiery funeral.â
Daddy smiled behind her as Bone burst into laughter. âI bet heâll say something different when you start texting with boys.â Daddyâs smile disappeared.Â
Troy butted in. âCainât you give me something bigger to blow up? My catapult wadnât made to shoot teddy bears.â
âFUZZY Bear!â shouted the girl.
âWhatever. You just blew up a bass boat without doinâ nothinâ special and I bring in a catapult and you want to shoot stuffed animals with it? This thingâs a real weapon.â
âStay in your lane, buddy,â Brad leaned out from under the tent and replied with his microphone behind his back. âWe can blow it up without you and your catapult if you want.â
Bone jumped in. âNo way. I wanna see this! That catapult rocks! Letâs do this!â He took Fuzzy Bear and placed him in the hot zone.
Troy stepped up to his medieval creation. âYâall gonna do a countdown âer somethinâ?â
âThree shall be the number thou shalt count,â said Brad in his best Monty Python voice. âThree,â said Dyno Dan and released the catapultâs arm, hurling the explosive to the other end of the parking lot where it exploded directly on top of the teddy, or Fuzzy, bear. Fur flew, the crowd hollered, daddy and daughter high fived. Boneâs jaw dropped at the destructive beauty and accuracy of the catapult. Troy let out a cackling laugh then slowly nodded to himself, eyes glossed over as he seemed to be imagining a different scene in his head. A wicked smile curled up on one side of his mouth. âFamous. My catapult is gonna make me famous.â
Brad shook his head. Something just didnât seem right about this guy.
âA wedding cake!â Bone had moved on to the next item in the blow-up bonanza. An apparently jilted bride presented a three-tiered cake complete with bride and groom figurines on top. âThis is gonna blow up sooooooo good! Dyno Dan! Can we make it blow up where some of the frosting lands in my mouth?â
