Craig Rainey – The Writer
As of March 5, 2018 you can purchase a copy of Craig Rainey’s latest fiction novel, Massacre at Agua Caliente. The book is based upon the original script of the same name.
The Story Behind the Book – Massacre at Agua Caliente
Craig asked why Brett had never cast him as the lead in any of his nearly 40 films. Brett’s reply sent Craig on a journey which only now is finally complete. He replied, “Casting you as the lead would make it impossible to cast a villain across from you who anyone would believe was a threat to you. You are too big a character and too strong for anyone to fear for your safety from anyone I know to cast in the antagonist role.”
Craig laughed his disbelief at his destiny to be a role player as cop or bad guy for the rest of his career. Brett offered a solution, albeit an unlikely one.
“Now if I could write a script where the bad guy is the hero, I could easily cast you.”
After that day, Craig made it his goal to write a film script which featured the villain as the hero. From that long labored goal emerged Massacre at Agua Caliente. Many called it a vanity project for good reason. Craig Rainey intended to star in the film.
The script was greeted with several awards from numerous film/screen-writing festivals including:
- Summer Slam Film Festival 2015 – Best Narrative Period Screenplay
- Summer Slam Film Festival 2015 – Best Breakout Writer – Craig Rainey
- Action on Film Festival 2015 – Honorable Mention
- Paragon Film Festival 2015 – Official Selection
The future of the script looks bright as does the novel. Support Craig Rainey in his writing career and get your copy of the book in e-book or paperback.
Look for his upcoming pilot novel for his newest action series –
Carson Brand – Stolen Valor
Brand looked around him in alarm. A buffering smoke cloud insulated the dark bar. Tune number six twanged an empathetic country message. He sipped his bourbon rocks from a heavy high ball glass, his senses still on edge. He didn’t want trouble. His concern was more related to the five dollars he had recently sacrificed to the merry glow of the digital juke box than the imminent danger descending upon him perceived through an infant bourbon buzz.
“4th of the one-thirty-third, huh?”
A bearded man stopped just outside of foot range. His tattooed logger sized arms were crossed over an airborne T-shirt hardly hiding a barrel chest and washboard stomach.
“Last time I checked, that was a weekend warrior brigade. You were never in Falusia because they were never in Falusia.”
Brand drained his drink. Ice fell rebelliously onto his upper lip. A small cold stream escaped his chin and dried upon his shirt. Karen, the dark haired bartender, watched the developing situation dubiously. Brand glanced at her to gauge how far he could go without the police intervening.
Karen was a veteran of bar conflict and seemed nonplussed thus far. He smiled weakly at her. She was more than his bartender. She was his friend and a former lover. She had placed him firmly into the friend zone once she learned he was married at the time they dated. He was no longer married, but remained in the friend zone none the less. She was one of the few blondes who colored their hair brunette. He had only known her with dark hair. Blonde was the hair color of her old life. This new chapter was likely as dark as the hair change.
Mr. Muscles was growing impatient.
“You’d best come out of it Mr. Nasty Guard.”
Brand returned his glass to the moist coaster decorated with a popular beer logo.
“Let’s make this easy for both of us, big boy. Your girl flirted with me before you got here. From what I gather, she is the brains of the operation. She is also, apparently, pretty proud of how much of a woman she is.”
Brand raised his voice a fraction to include Karen.
“I’m gonna need another in just a minute, sugar.”
Karen moved forward and collected his glass.
“If her offering to blow me in the parking lot is any indication of her commitment to you, I would start making other plans.”
Mr. Muscles lowered his huge arms and he flexed and unflexed his hands as his rage grew. He was big, at least six five. He likely lived in the gym. He was former military based upon his taking offense at Brand’s boast of military service and the Airborne T-shirt.
Brand stood to his full six feet and faced the behemoth. He was in good shape for a regular guy who ate what he wanted and drank frequently. He was thick in the right places and his arms and legs were sturdy from a lifetime of outside labor.
“You are about to live your worst nightmare”, Brand said calmly.
He glanced at Karen in an effort to assuage her rising sense of alarm.
“All your life, being a big guy has kept you out of fights. Most guys don’t like to tangle with six foot five assholes.”
Brand felt a familiar buzz building deep inside of him. He waited for the hum of adrenalin, anticipating the next stage where it blossomed into the freedom of full, unbridled fury. Although his passions mounted, his voice remained even.
“I always feel guilty kicking a mudhole into an average sized man. Now you…”
He pointed mildly at the giant.
“You. I will feel no guilt at all. You better know how to take care of yourself because I am going to whip your ass right in front of that slutty girlfriend of yours.”
Brand watched the giant’s eyes. He saw the dullness of fear and doubt cloud them. Mr. Muscles had never been faced down before. This was unfamiliar ground for him. Brand’s lips tightened into a disappointed tight line.
“Go back to your girlfriend and I’ll buy you a drink for the exaggeration about my military record.”
Brand sat down, dismissing the giant. Karen placed a fresh drink before him, watching the giant suspiciously. Mr. Muscles stayed in place, unsure how to proceed. Finally, he moved slowly behind Brand and back to the end of the horseshoe-shaped bar where his girlfriend considered him silently, eyes blazing.
“This isn’t over”, Karen confided in a low voice.
“Maybe”, Brand replied sipping his drink.
The offended couple at the end of the bar argued in hushed but urgent tones. Brand knew she was excoriating him for his cowardice. Mr. Muscles tried to explain away his retreat with a combination of reasonable assertions for avoiding trouble and swaggering boasts of how the smaller guy wasn’t worth his time and effort.”
The girlfriend wasn’t buying it – not one bit.
Karen served Mr. Muscles a drink and gestured across the bar to Brand, apparently crediting him with the purchase.
Mr. Muscles looked at the drink while, all the while, his girlfriend poured poison into his ear. He slammed both fists on the bar and threw the drink onto the stained floor. Glass exploded and amber liquor sprayed his feet. He left his bar chair at a sprint. He lowered his shoulders in preparation to tackle Brand. Brand saw this immediately and rose, grabbing his bar chair. He threw it at the attacker’s feet. Mr. Muscles’ feet tangled in the heavy falling chair. He grabbed the stout wooden trim at the edge of the bar trying to catch himself. His head rose as he struggled to right himself. Brand hammered a right into the middle of his straining visage. The crack of his breaking nose sounded like a pool cue broken over a knee. Brand followed the blow with a left to the side of his head, just behind the ear. The giant landed on his battered face, out cold.
Brand waited in surprise. The behind-the-ear shot had been luck. He fought by the credo hit hard and often. His military training, albeit on weekends and two weeks each summer, included hand gun training. In shooting it was called a double tap. Never trust a single blow – or shot. The blow was a last resort due to his target falling out of range.
“My name is Bert”, he said draining the last of his drink. “Sorry, Karen.”
“I’m calling the police…guy who I have never seen before.”
Karen went to the phone and dialed 911 as Brand dashed out the front doors.
Miguel wiped the tears from his eyes. He could hardly see to drive. He was in now: his final test passed with flying colors. He felt real pride for a fleeting moment. The dying eyes of the frightened teen fell from his mind’s eye for scant seconds. The reprieve was brief. The swelling pride fell violently to guilt and despair as the kid had fallen to his colt revolver.
Javier watched the driver from the passenger seat with keen interest. He was only a few months removed from his own pruebe. Everyone did it. Everyone wept. That was the process. He felt an urge to console the driver with this information. Instinctively he knew it wouldn’t help. His shotgun hadn’t said a word to him. He said nothing to his driver.