Art: Written Word

I Am


An accoustic assault of beat and rhythm pounds out of the tiny speakers of the radio. Nothing more than a small black box on the concrete edge of the skate park. Half a dozen skaters ride to the music today, escaping the city for the afternoon. The announcer comes on.

"Renegade Radio, the music they don't want you to hear." The deep bass timbre shouts at them.

The music starts back up immediately, a scratch DJ, or DJs, from the previous century comes on.


"We aren't bouncing through enough secure points anymore." A soft female voice is on the phone, though you can just barely make out a tone of concern behind the calm.

"It'll be fine. I'll recalibrate tomorrow." He answers, deep bass voice is calm without any kind of concern to it.

"You said that last week. This is serious, if they find you.."

"I know that. But it means I gotta take down the broadcast." He says, slightly irritated.

"Better down an hour than down forever." She answers.

"I'll do it." He sounds agitated now.

"Talk to you next week." She says.

"Yeah." He disconnects the call and drops his phone onto the empty chair.

He looks at his broadcast equipment, it's playing a set of songs twelve hours long right now. He pauses it at the end of the current song.

"Asphalt Grind here with Renegade Radio, bringing you the music they don't want you to hear. Take Blitzkrieg Bop by..." He is cut off by his apartment door being kicked in.


A gun is shoved into Camille's face as she sits up in bed to see what the noise is all about.

Asphalt Grind is in the living room, on the ground. A similar machine gun is to the back of his head.

Nine people in assault gear are in the small apartment, a tenth man in a suit looks at the stack of equipment on the table next to Asphalt Grind's prone body. He reaches down and unplugs the power strip.


Dead air hangs on the radio speakers like a weight.


"Who are you working with?" the question is shouting at him by the suit.

Asphalt Grind is hadncuffed to a metal chair in a mostly empty room. The room has dirty white walls and cracked tiles in a checkboard pattern on the floor. To his right is Camille, also hadncuffed to a metal chair. Both of them are facing the middle of the room, which contains the suit.

Bright florescent lights illuminate the room from fixtures in the ceiling. "No one." He says.

"Bullshit." The suit backhands Camille, she yelps in pain.

"Renegade!" Asphault Grind shouts, "She goes by Renegade." He looks at Camille who looks back with terror in her eyes.

"Where is Renegade?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit." The suit backhands Camiile again, she screams in pain and begins to sob.


"Welcome back to Renegade Radio, playing the music they don't want you to hear." A soft female voice says to eager listeners. A heavy industrial track is now pounding through speakers from radios all over the city.

Renegade checks the timer, she has fifteen hours to find Asphalt Grind before the current playlist will begin to repeat itself. She leaves the room, takes an elevator downstairs and walks into the afternoon heat.


Asphalt Grind and Camille stare at each other across the empty room. "I'm sorry he says in a hoarse whisper.

"You should have listened to her." Is all Camille responds with.

The door opens and slams shut. The man in the suit walks in, he looks angry and is holding a large gun.

"How many DJs are left?" He yells as Asphalt Grind.

"You can't stop her." He answers, he know the broadcasts have started again.

The suit shoves the gun unto Camille's mouth, "Where is she?" He spits.


Listeners wait with anticipation, they know a DJ is missing. It happens every once in a while. They wait to find out what happened. They wait for Renegade to tell them it's still ok to listen to their choice of music. They wait, and they listen to her broadcast.

/brush the surface off and grind on it/

A sping kick so fast it's nothing but a blur smashes into Agent Mason's jaw. Agent Garson watches Mason's jaw crack, his head snapped so hard to one side is breaks with another snap. Mason's body is lifted off it's feet and goes three feet before coming back down.

Garson blinked and found himself starting down the barrel of a gun. "Where is Asphalt Grind?" A calm female voice asks him.

Whoever this woman was Garson did not want to fuck with her, company enhancements or not. "Room 412, Dirt Road Inn." He said shakily.

Garson's ambitions followed the forty-five slug out the back of his skull.

/older elder I AM/

"I Don't Know!" Asphalt Grind yells, "I told you, she calls once a week. We've never met."

/deeper bleaker I AM/

She races through the city, her motorcycle weaving through traffic.

A shot of music from a nearby radio catches her attention at a red light. By the song coming from it she knows there are only six hours left to her playlist.

/put a gun in my mouth/

"Where does she call from?" The suit yells.

/and threaten to shoot/

"I don't know. I can't ever trace the call."

/put a gun in my mouth/

The gun makes a clacking noise against Camille's teeth.

/and threaten to shoot/

"I'm not fucking around anymore. Who is she!?"

/put a gun in my mouth/

Asphalt Gring stares at Camille, who has total terror in her eyes. "I told you.."

/and threaten to shoot/

"Bullshit." The hammer cocks back.

/put a gun in my mouth/

"I don't know." Asphalt Grind sobs, his voice cracking and tears forming.

/and threaten to shoot/

"That's too bad."

/Justice Died Here/

She stands in the doorway and stares at two bodies handcuffed to metal chairs in a dark room with dirty white walls and a cracked checkerboard pattern tile floor.

She leaves.

// Lyrics Copyright 1999 Static-X //

"Renegade Radio would like to take this moment to mourn the late Asphault Grind and his wife Camille." A soft female voice says over the air, and is followed by a minute of silence.

// Story Copyright 2004 Gordon Feiner //

"This is Renegade, giving you the music they don't want you to hear, fully unscensored and unedited."