Sometimes it’s fine,
sometimes it’s nuts,
stabbing sunshine,
oh baby, it cuts.

Do what you have to do,
see the metal? ( Metal )
it shines on my chest.
Sticks out like bravery (ooh wah);
was what we did best?

Mission accomplished
that was the call
come see my waterboard
We’ll have a ball

Sometimes it’s fine,
sometimes a curse,
Mom sent me Kevlar,
oh baby, it’s worse.

Do what you have to do,
see the metal? ( Metal )
it shines on my chest.
Sticks out like bravery (ooh wah);
was what we did best?

As performed by Surplus Population

©2009 John Gifford for independent together studios

posted with permission of the author

Sincerely,
Shecky Merman

FADE IN TO

Flashback sequence, as Bobby J. Memphis stomps out of the conference room, the others still laughing.

Bobby J. enters the rest room, still perturbed at the rest of Yanstebangus. He selects a piece of reading material from the rack. Close-up of it: a Johnny McStuff catalog.

~_^.^_~

Eddie Fraught and George Portent had gotten laid off when the truck-building plant was shut down in the latest attempt to adapt to a rapidly failing economy. There weren’t any sweetheart deals for the rank-and-file, although Upper Management supporters of various politicians tried to call in favors. Regrettably, several states and a wide cross-section of the bankers had been in line first, snapping up $700,000,000,000.00 in relief checks. Most of managers got shuffled to other plants; some got “golden handshakes” equal to three years’ pay for “worker bees” like George and Eddie.

Fortunately for George and Eddie, neither had to resort to sweeping Aisle Number Nine at Mal-Wart, the world’s bargain super-center. They got jobs sweeping aisles and fulfilling orders at the local Johnny McStuff Novelty Warehouse.

“Hey, Eddie, check this out. Somebody ordered the last 3 B625A’s we’ve got.” George waved the crinkly pull ticket as he stuck it on the clipboard on Eddie’s forklift.

Eddie flipped a few pages in the catalog. He hadn’t quite memorized what all of the codes signified. A wide grin broke over his grizzled face. “Someone’s going to have fun with these!”

~_^.^_~

Giovanni leaned in to the table, addressing the other 3 musical superstars. “All I can tell you is that this… thing… spoke. It knocked me out and must have dumped me in the car and moved it. And the scroll warned me about ‘The Shadowy Masters.’ ”

Billy P. sat back and said, “And you’re sure you weren’t drinking? I mean… Shadowy Masters… android machines with floating political consultants… lion-men living in underground lairs? It’s a little… well…”

Giovanni snapped, “I wasn’t drunk! I know what I saw.” He buried his dark eyes in his brow and slammed himself back in his chair.

“Alright, alright,” said Stefano, bending forward and raising his hand slightly. “Let’s figure what Giovanni says is legit. What are they going to want with us, anyway? Maybe to play a benefit concert for some big politico? Hey, that might make us more bread than a cereal endorsement.”

An audible groan came from the others.

“Whatever, it would;” Stefano went on, “but what I’m saying is that we have to focus on this tour we’re doing. No creepy Halloween ghost stories, we have 25 cities in 39 days. So, gentlemen, we keep our eyes open but get ready to rehearse.”

Bobby J. Memphis spoke up. “Hell yeah, y’all. I’m not worried. I’m just glad we’ve got the little breaks in there, because Brother Claghorn wants me to do a couple of those benefit shows for his campaign. Not like I’m makin’ any money off ‘im.” He gave Stefano the hairy eyeball.

“Okay, Bobby J., enough.” Stefano shrugged off the barb. “I meant we’d sell more albums after an appearance. I know you wouldn’t object to that.”

“Yeah, true,” said Bobby J. “Anyway… don’t forget that chili the Mrs. sent in. It’s in the crock-pot.”

“Yeah, it smells great,” said Billy P.

The others nodded agreement. It was the generic lunchtime, around noon, so they broke and enjoyed the chili. Bobby J. didn’t take much, attributing this to a huge brunch at Victory Worship Center on the way in.

~_^.^_~

NOTE: faint of heart? Squeamish? Low “grossout’ factor? Have better taste and aesthetic sense than Shecky Merman? Give up now, scroll to the bottom, and look forward to the next installment of Yanstebangus! Even Jim Carrey or Mike Myers fans should cringe. Consider that a warning.

The rest of you, well, read on.

~_^.^_~

The four-alarm chili was delectable, as the second and, in Stefano’s case, third helpings attested. There was just the right amount of heat, and a delicate balance of peppers to meat and bean flavors. The chili had obviously simmered for at least a full day, very low, to infuse everything with Southwest goodness. There were even almost chocolate notes to the flavor.

“Wow, kind of the reverse of Chocolat,’ said Billy P.

“Yeah, well, just don’t get no funny ideas, man,” quipped Bobby J.

Everyone roared at this. And A Good Time Was Had By All.

There was a moment, shortly following, that to this day will get you a trouncing by three members of this League Of Ordinary Gentlemen.

Almost at the same moment-now, seriously, if you hate gross-out gags-oh, hell, you were warned-three out of four band members felt a strange curdling in their stomachs. There was that sensation that, once experienced, is never forgotten. It’s one of the hallmarks of the human experience, and not one of the fun ones. The sensation of your intestines coming to a full, roiling boil, which only the most insensate would not connect to an immutable, imminent, nauseating explosion.

They looked at each other with that hopeless anti-grin, top teeth resting on down-turned bottom lip. They all stood abruptly. Their legs sent the rolling conference-room chairs haphazardly spinning backward. They were all calculating that there were 2 bathrooms, one with 2 stalls, the other a single.

Bobby J. remained seated. “What’s up with you all?” he asked, innocently, suppressing a smirk.

“No time!” shouted Stefano, rushing at the door. Billy P. and Giovanni just nodded and sprinted closely behind.

Bobby J. howled with laughter alone in the conference room.

As they raced toward the restrooms, Stefano said, “Ladies Room’s got 2 stalls, right?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Giovanni, breathless. “Janitor always leaves the door propped after cleaning and we never use it, so you can see that.”

“Not like I’m looking in there, usually,” he added.

“Usually,” said Billy P., keeping much better humor than one normally would under the circumstances. “Anyway, Stefano, you go for the men’s, whatever, I don’t care, I gotta GO!”

They made it there, with mere seconds to spare. Their shoes clattered over the floor with the sound of tap-dancers having epileptic seizures. As each flicked the stall doors, open, they raised the toilet lids, rapidly.

Shrill electronic screams greeted them, and each saw a horrifying monster, claws outstretched, leaping from inside the bowl. That it was made of rubber and its claws were suction-cupped to the inside of the lid didn’t ease the shock.

The explosive force with which the bowels of each of our hapless heroes let go could have cracked a cinder block. Suffice to say that it had the sound of a trombone section playing while immersed in chocolate pudding. Billy P. and Giovanni did much better than Stefano, each of them actually making the stall, ripping the plastic toilet monsters out of the way, and flinging themselves onto their respective thrones. Stefano, unfortunately, had a wardrobe malfunction: his button-fly gaucho pants were not made for a speedy escape.

The chili was.

Stefano’s manner and mode of dress were Southwestern, in tune with his persona, but his constitution was decidedly from Pittsburgh. Even though he could withstand 3 cabbage rolls, a pot of black coffee, 4 kielbasas, and a 12-pack of Iron City Beer, he was no match for the fiery chili burning his rump. The hot burst blasted against the taut linen barricade, splashing back against Stefano’s keister, and running down his leg. The vile droll leached to the outside edge of his pants.

Almost instantly, the heat in the trickling mess turned to a cold clamminess, making Stefano’s stomach flip upside down. The toilet monster, tossed to the floor, still looked up at the queasy troubadour. It taunted him with its snaggle-toothed smirk. The garish, sewery scent leapt into his nostrils, reached down his throat, and pulled as much gloppy sputum as it could back up his throat and out onto the discarded prank creature.

A chorus of groans in the stalls of the still-open ladies’ room was a sour soundtrack to Stefano’s indignity. Ashen-faced, befouled in the worst way, all he could do was head back out the door and look for old rags in the janitor’s closet.

Bobby J. was in the hall, laughing and pointing. “What’s a-matter, man, can’t handle yer chili?”

Stefano growled through the bile in his throat, “Just clean that crap up, man! Get the hell outta my way.” He didn’t even take a swing at Bobby J., though the thought had crossed his swirling mind.

At this point, he just collected a bunch of old newspapers to line the seat of his ebony SUV and headed back to his place for a change of clothes. “Paybacks are a bitch,” he thought to himself. He faintly smiled at a plastic skeleton decoration hanging in a tree strung with phony spider webs.

~_^.^_~

Just remember: sometimes a treat may contain the trick. Happy Hallowe’en from Yanstebangus!

If any of you join us next time, God bless you.

And on a serious note, it will soon be Election Day. Be the change you wish to see in the world. Don’t waste your voice on silence. Vote early and vote often.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

atmfakmf]]> http://wordchasm.com/2008/10/19/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-4-novelty/feed/ 1 http://wordchasm.com/2008/10/06/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-3-generation-why/ http://wordchasm.com/2008/10/06/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-3-generation-why/#comments Mon, 06 Oct 2008 15:00:55 +0000 sheckyMerman http://www.wordchasm.com/?p=445 The shiny new catalog was resting comfortably in the walnut-stained mail tray. The tray had a faded, curled sticky note proclaiming “IN” taped to it. Stefano had just come back from a short tour, promoting his latest instructional DVD and Guitar Accessory Kit. It was also available on Blu-Ray and the Blu-Ray disc featured an interactive game starring Stefano and the other members of Yanstebangus.

Stefano had been looking into a cereal endorsement deal, but so far was the only member to even entertain such a concept. He recalled the day he’d mentioned it to the rest of the supergroup. Those three were always ambivalent about a new idea, until you “pitched” them, he thought.

“I’m not going to be a sellout,” proclaimed Bobby J. Memphis.

Stefano had looked at him incredulously. “You did that dancing show and you’re not going to be a sellout?” he quipped.

Billy P. and Giovanni were already snickering, suppressing laughter. They bellowed out explosions of hilarity when Bobby J. simply muttered, “Shut up, man.” Bobby J. had glared at all of them and scowled his way out of the room. He shook his head in disgust, mullet haircut swaying like a drunken lemur.

Stefano paused at the door, smirking at the visual, then turned the light on. He looked around the office, taking in how much it looked exactly as he’d left it. There were several things piled in his Inbox. A slick, shiny “Vote For Claghorn” mailer perched precariously atop the stack; unceremoniously, it flew into the recycle box under Stefano’s desk as he looked at his correspondence.

There were several items of equal importance. These invitations to marketing seminars in Las Vegas, “Urgent—Open Immediately” offers of 35%-Interest-Bearing Credit Cards, and Call Now To Receive Your Free Gift, Small Membership Fee Required notices met a similar fate.

A couple of envelopes resembling resumes, which Stefano flipped to his desktop, a Modern Marketing Methods magazine, and—a prize!

This quarter’s Johnny McStuff catalog… pages brimming with novelties, idiotic/obscene/offensive t-shirts, desktop decorations, and the finest in Phony Dog Poo. Now here was mail that defined what mail should be.

~_^.^_~

“Hey Merman. Visitor.” The gigantic, lantern-jawed walk-on playing the guard somehow dropped any form of accent, inflection, and tone below the usual low standards here in my sweet little cocoon. I think his name was Smith. It could have been Lurch.

I looked up, and, to my shock and dismay, my ex-wife was there. “Geez,” I said, “first, no pudding at lunch and now this. What’s the matter, overdrawn at the blood bank?”

“Save it,” she said, raising her hand to me, palm first. I’d talked to that hand for well over a decade. It rarely answered with more than one finger. “I don’t have time for that now, and neither do you.”

“So, to what do I owe the honor?”

“It’s your daughter… ugh!” She exhaled with that inimitable derision—a sound she’d mastered over years of dealing with the lesser intellects she was forced to endure. “She is heading for trouble, and she’s going to wind up in Juvenile Hall. You should be happy to know she takes after you.”

My eyes rolled, almost involuntarily. “No, really, I’m a captive audience, keep teasing me. What are you talking about?”

“I think you should ask her yourself.” The immense guard stepped aside, as if on queue. My daughter, Serena, stepped forward from his shadow, bedecked in her usual chain-covered Tripp pants, leather jacket, spiked hair, and various shades of black makeup and jewelry. All in all, the very picture of a normal, well-adjusted child.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, kid, glad to see you! So, what brings you to my little resort here?”

“I don’t know, I, um… well…” She looked at the floor hesitantly as her voice trailed off.

My ex turned to her, arms akimbo. “You were pretty cocky about it a while ago. Well, tell him.”

I was almost glad I had bars around me at this point. “So…?”

The syllable hung there for a moment, and then the child spoke up. “I’m… umm… I… well, I might have to go to Juvy.”

Juvy, or Juvenile Hall, was for Problem Children to go stay for a while to consider the lilies. While it might seem impressive, it’s usually an idea best not considered. Certain types of glamour aren’t as nice as others. Then again, it beats glamour like Scissor Sisters, right?

“OK, so that sounds incomprehensible. Why would you be going there?”

“I… umm… you know your old chainsaw? I… umm… borrowed it?” Her sentence ended with a questioning inflection, as many teens’ did. I ignored the urge to tell her to use the inflection of making a statement and kept listening. Involuntarily, my arms folded across my chest.

“Well, you know Kelly Memphis?”

How could you not? Even here in the gray-bar hotel, you saw ads in magazines and on TV for Kelly-Memphisibilia. Bobby J. Memphis’ teenaged daughter had become a superstar in her own right; actually, No, she was not a superstar, but a merchandising icon. Somehow, some way, the Milt Dizzy entertainment megalith had snapped up Bobby J. Memphis and his daughter for a cheesy sitcom.

It had taken the world by storm, by dint of great self-sacrifice on Dizzy’s part. They had sacrificed millions in marketing dollars, and it must have been paying off. Bobby J. Memphis got to appear on a dancing celebrity show and enjoyed a renaissance of his own flagging career. I continued to sit in here.

“Yes, the height of quality entertainers, no doubt,” I said. “So what does she have to do with all this?”

“I kind of… umm… chain-sawed her head off.”

Eek. Murder? My expression belied my innermost thoughts. So I had to express myself. Sagely, I said, “Eek. Murder?”

“No, but it might as well have been!” Her mother could no longer resist, and burst into the thick of things. “Your daughter—“ long pause for dramatic effect, head sweeping as she turned to regard the offspring, toothy frown on her face—“your daughter took it upon herself to carve up a billboard!”

“What?”

“Yes, a billboard.” My ex growled and pushed on Serena’s elbow. “Go on, tell him.”

Even the gargantuan Smith, or Lurch, whatever his name was, shifted uncomfortably. For a fleeting moment, I considered asking him if he wanted to be in the cell where it was safe.

“I was sick of seeing all these advertisements for Kelly fu—–, uh, umm, Kelly Memphis all over the place. They put up a billboard like a mile from my school. I can’t stand seeing her plastic smile. So me and some friends got your chainsaw.”

I raised an eyebrow, but nodded for her to go on.

“Well, umm, we climbed up the billboard and I kinda, uh, chopped off her head.”

I stifled a laugh, snorting, pretending I sneezed. Nobody bought it. The Ex glared. Lurch frowned. Serena sneaked a smirk over her forced blank expression. The kid definitely was paying attention. However, I had to play the Dad here. Granted, that’s A Little Difficult To Do from behind bars. In fact, it started to creep into my consciousness that this scene didn’t make any more sense than a bad soap opera from the Milt-Dizzy-owned Already Been Cancelled network. I shook off the logic and proceeded.

“And when, exactly, did the thought ‘bad idea’ pop into your head?”

“I don’t know.” She got mad, more at being caught than at being put on the spot, I’m sure. She inhaled and exhaled, loudly. “I guess when the cops got there. Somebody ratted us out.”

The picture in my mind’s eye was just wonderful. Twilight’s gathering gloom; Goth Child on rickety billboard ledge with sputtering, smoky, rusty chainsaw, removing head of pop-superstar icon. Nice. “Did you think maybe the noise of that clanky old chainsaw might have given it away?”

Her cheeks flushed, brows furrowed, head dipped down so I could just see the glaring eyes from underneath. A familiar, inherited expression I had seen elsewhere many times before as well. “No…” The strained force with which this was uttered could have hoisted a girder to the top of a tall building.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of room to talk, but what exactly were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

What do you say in a situation like this? Obviously, the protest sentiment was awesome, if a little over-the-top. OK, completely over-the-top; fine. Thanks, fathead, I need to be kept straight, especially given the company in the preceding narrative. Whatever. I’m used to it by now.

Moving right along…

The ex again jumped in. “I just thought you should see what your little stunt inspired your daughter to do. She’ll probably be in Juvenile Hall until senior year. Thanks to you.” The accusatory tone and glare came to rest on me with immaculate, split-second timing.

“Well, that’s not that long, anyway,” I shot back. “Besides, it’ll make a model citizen of her.”

Serena’s jaw dropped a bit. She gave me one of those quizzical one-eyebrow-up, one-eyebrow-down frowning looks that teens are genetically hard-wired to use. I smirked at her and her expression lightened.

The ex gasped audibly and shook her head. “I knew it was useless to try to get a straight answer out of you.” She grabbed at Serena’s arm. “Come on, young lady, we’re going to go.”

“Well, umm, uh, thanks for stopping by?” Trying to make sense out of this was also useless, so I had given up.

“I was going to see if you could help with a lawyer. You never did anything else, of course,” hissed the ex, stopping by the security door and turning back. “I called your wife and she said to ask you.”

This was a complete fabrication. If she’d spoken to my wife, the answer would have been to suggest she check into a hotel and enjoy fornication under consent of the king by herself. Besides, my wife had a pretty fair grasp on the family finances and doctors and lawyers and such. It was pretty essential for a starving artist and suburban cowboy to have someone gifted that way. That she hadn’t dusted me when I got thrown in the clink was a testament to her character. Maybe not to her sanity, but definitely to her character.

“I will call my lawyer and see what he can do,” I said, magnanimously, palms upturned with a minor shrug of my shoulders.

“Oh, we already found a good attorney. We just need to have help paying for her. My daughter needs to have the best attorney money can buy. Your lawyer got you stuck in jail.” She had a fist on her hip and gave a sharp, pointed nod of her head, like a cobra striking at its rodent prey.

Still with the palms upturned, I looked up at the ceiling, silently asking if Anybody Up There Was Watching This. I suppressed a sighing groan. “Well, I don’t know then. I’m a little removed from my accounting stuff here, ya think?”

The ex huffed in exasperation and turned to go.

To Serena, I said, “Look, kid, you screwed up. Funny! Probably a strong statement against greed and corporate consumerism—but it was a screw-up. “

Very quietly, she said, “I knowwwww…..”

“OK, so make the best of it now, do what you have to. We’ll pull for you best as we can. Just think: we’ll have matching striped pajamas.”

“Da-ad…” Serena shook her head, rolled, her eyes, and smiled in spite of herself.

Smith let out a low, rumbling groan, either of disgust or indigestion. “Time for the visitors to go,” he said, in his deep monotone.

“Oh, yes, we were leaving,’ spat the Ex. “Thanks for nothing! As usual!” She stormed out the door, then turned and folded her arms, watching Serena until the child reluctantly walked to follow her.

“Bye, Dad,” said Serena, as she walked out. She seemed resigned to her fate; certainly, her stay at home would be just as punitive as the visit to the judge and the possible excursion as the guest of the county.

“See you kid, I love ya!” I intended to call my lawyer and see what advice he could give.

A quick turn of the head toward me as she paused; “Love you, too.”

The Ex rolled her eyes and motioned for the child to hurry up.

The door slammed shut. Wow. Merman—the Next Generation. Maybe there’s hope after all.

~_^.^_~

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

The stairwell was lit with an indirect, diffuse light at the tops of the walls and with large torches burning along the walls. A closer inspection of one showed the torches were actually mounted via a pipe that appeared to be a natural gas or propane supply. These would be perpetual flames, as long as the fuel supply remained. The ceiling was pale blue and curved, making the walls seem even taller than they were. The soft light above was almost completely swallowed up by the pitch-black walls, floors, and stairs.

Two huge, walnut-and-ebony doors were at the top of the long, wide staircase. They were half-open, the tongues of their locking mechanisms sticking out, taunting the shadowy visitor.

Approaching the door, he saw that there was some source of light from inside the room. He had slipped out of stealth mode since most of the hallway was in shadow. He pulled back along the wall. He stopped momentarily, pulling from his pocket the LED document reading light and the 3-by-5-inch card that had led him here.

The cryptic card was delivered in a plain envelope, with a return address that checked out as a PO Box at the Washington, D.C. Zoo. There was a link to a Google Map and a string of numbers printed on one side, and a hand-drawn sketch of what proved to be the floor plan of this building. There was also a key enclosed. The map, of course, had led here: a non-descript, tattered warehouse in the seedy, poverty-scarred badlands near the docks of New York’s West Side. It was the reality outside the barrage of the mind-bendingly shiny, beautiful excess of Times Square.

He’d decided to drive in under night’s cover. The parking lot was surrounded by rusty chain-link fence topped with sagging security wire. Tatters of some hapless intruder’s jacket or pants, captured by the security wire, fluttered in the chilly breeze. A few pink-orange security lamps glowered down from poles scattered around the pothole-ridden parking lot.

There was a chain at the corner of the rolling gate, fastened with a heavy padlock. The enigmatic key, of course, fit the lock as if the author had been struggling to state the obvious. The lock popped open and the chain scraped along the gate as it slid apart.

The gate was rusted and bent but it, too, opened, grudgingly, rolling to the side with a couple of metallic creaks and groans. He slipped back into the car, quietly closing the door, and pulled forward, slowly. A rat stopped to look at the sleek black sports car, then turned back to the moldy pizza crust it had retrieved from a nearby dumpster.

There was a somewhat out-of-place numeric keypad on the side of a ground-level receiving door. The code on the card opened the door, loudly, but he’d driven the car inside anyway. The area was not one in which you would leave a car unattended, if you had a choice. There were plenty of glitterati driving these sorts of vehicles all around the city, but you’d certainly want to have a ride out of here when you went back for it.

The others had suggested he not go it alone, but he resolved not to endanger the whole team. The envelope had been marked with a logo he was familiar with—a little-known crest used by the elite of the craft. A square composed of 3 connected, black-outlined white rectangles with 2 smaller black rectangles inset across the centers of the inner dividing lines… the symbol for the group known only as C2E.

C2E was not the group who had advised against his solo venture here. True, the stakes herein would be ones that most members of C2E would probably risk. But C2E was more of a professional organization than the day-to-day team. To calm the team—or avoid the haggling—he’d taken off when the rest of them broke for lunch. He’d kept a small bit of insurance by leaving detailed maps of the route here. He also left one of the computers open and locked on the micro-GPS he’d secured to the inside of his shirt. Since it was outfitted with a “panic button,” if anything went South, he could press the contact and, at the very least, alert the others as to where he was and that he needed assistance. He smirked at the thought, then shook his head to focus on the matter at hand.

A vague sense of motion from the corner of his eye. The inaudible whisper of cloth on cloth from the corner of the room. A slight change in the air pressure in the room. The slightest hint of the sound of breathing—just above the sound of his own breathing—helped him get away from the foray into woolgathering.

He shook off the sudden apprehension as being nerves.

He approached the raised dais. There was a large, thick table that jutted up in the center of it. It stood on 2 wide legs, like a trestle table, but was 6 inches thick. The surface, on closer inspection, appeared to have been made of plastic. The top of the table was covered with buttons and dials.

It was the stuff of legends, especially the legends shared by the elusive members of C2E. Maybe it was the geographical simplicity of the tool of their craft, or perhaps the complexity of the mechanics of those devices, but C2E members loved the shroud of mystery. One did not join the organization: the organization recruited members.

So here he was, and this, his second odyssey. So was this his initiation or was he here to guide another? The puzzles and conundrums would have maddened many; resting on the fulcrum edge between genius and madness was sitting in the catbird seat for C2E’s populace. Or so it has been alleged in some dusty old manuscripts thrown over the transom into Shecky Merman’s cell.

The buttons, dials, and slider switches atop the thick table seemed to be arranged in a familiar pattern. Was it Moog? No… not enough dials… and not many patch-cord sockets. Unusual. Newer? Oberheim…? No… a bit older… Arp!

He almost shouted it aloud, and stopped himself. He busied himself with the dials and slider switches. Oscillators… filters… old-school, hands-on synthesis. He set them in a pattern that, if electricity were applied and amplified, would create the sound of a whirling wind. He then set about the dusty ADSR panel… he set attack at 0, Decay at 30, Sustain at 60, and Release at 90.

There was a square button that had begun to glow with a blue light, more and more brightly as he set each of the ADSR sliders. He pressed it, hoping this would provide the next clue.
A vague whirring, as a small motor started and gears engaged, and a long, rectangular piece of the table slowly moved forward, disappearing into the table. A long row of black and white keys was gradually revealed. He counted the octaves—5—so it was a limited-range keyboard.

That probably wouldn’t matter. This puzzle hadn’t been too difficult… so what was the real point? He’d been hoping primarily to find a master’s keyboard and the elusive platinum logo, which would signify his upper-level abilities and membership in this ghostly fraternity. Jim Fetch had already become part of it… and it was his recommendation that had brought Giovanni this far.

He perceived another movement near him in the shadow. It made him stop and look up. He was sure there was someone else in here with him. “Come to the light,” he said, quietly. There was also a commanding tone in his voice that even surprised him.

Nothing.

Giovanni set back to the task at hand, uneasily, and attempted a few different musical passages on the keyboard. This was most likely a musical lock, which he’d seen before. It couldn’t be as simple as the last one had turned out, he reasoned. He did try playing Chopsticks here. Of course, it did nothing.

Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

Nothing.

Polovtsian Dance No. 2 by Borodin.

Nothing.

Mary Had A Little Lamb.

An LED in the center of the table glowed bright red and went out. No other effect.

“Couldn’t be…” he murmured, aloud. He reflected for a moment and played Mary had A Little Lamb backwards.

A row of green LEDs flashed to life across the controller’s surface. A green LED came to life on the wall directly in front of him, and a section of the wall scratched, scraped, and slid to one side.

Another long tunnel, but this one lit with ordinary fluorescent tubes. The light was searing after the gloom of the C2E controller room.

Giovanni looked carefully around the rest of the once-inky controller room, now that the tunnel lights illuminated it. No one else was there, after all. A simple case of apprehension, apparently.

With newfound resolve, Giovanni walked down the tunnel. It was old—many years old—and made of light-colored brick. Most of the lights burned brightly, but there were a few that had darkened. Some sputtered as their gas had begun to dissipate and the electrons were lacking passage between poles. He could hear subway trains hurtling past, louder near several wooden doors along the tunnel.

There was a metal door at the end of the tunnel, simply marked “NBC,” with a red-eyed peacock crest above the lettering and a C2E logo beneath it. Giovanni reflected for a bit and realized that they were somewhat near Rockefeller Center, but that should still have been at least a mile away on the surface.

This door was locked. Giovanni looked around for the mechanism, since there was likely another musical lock here. Pressing on a small panel oddly placed on the hinge-side of the door, a tiny keyboard popped out.

He exhausted several more complex ideas, but finally understood the C2E concept of “simply complex.” You yourself would have known the combination. Since the early days of radio, the National Broadcasting Company had used a 3-tone chime to announce itself. Dong Ding DONG. The 3 keys played the famous chime, and the door mechanism unlatched.

As cautiously as he opened the door, Giovanni stepped into the next room. It seemed to be an odd laboratory of sorts. There was a master’s keyboard sitting on a desk, a tiny platinum rectangle sitting on its keys. “So this was the adventure,” he thought. “Lots of fun.”

A harsh, metallic voice rang out.

“Come to me.”

Giovanni whirled to see a strange machine, designed as if by a bizarre, reclusive professor from some early-1980s sci-fi thriller. The “head” had two cameras at its top; below them, a microphone sat atop a speaker, giving it a ridiculous “face.”

Pictures of various luminaries in some of their most-memorable moments adorned the walls—Nixon in China, the Reagan Assassination Attempt, JFK’s motorcade, even Britney Spears with a shaved head. A picture of Bobby J. Memphis’ superstar daughter, Kelly, was taped to the brick wall.

There was a huge glass cylinder, filled with a teal-blue liquid and a couple of bodies. . . one of which appeared to be that of Karl Rove. The others looked strangely like some authors from this very Wordchasm, into which you have fallen for this grim tale.

“Come to me.”

The machine spoke again, urging Giovanni toward it. There was a long table with a helmet wired into the machine and something that looked as if one would clamp it over the lower half of their body. It seemed so compelling.

“All of the musical knowledge in the world can be yours.” the machine said. “Come to me. Now.”

Suddenly, there was a growl, and a rush of motion from behind him. “No!”

A strange creature: part man, part animal, dressed in strangely medieval clothing—grabbed at Giovanni’s arm. He spun him away from the machine bodily. “Do not get into that thing!” he hissed.

A large, brightly-lit collar glowed angrily on the beast-man’s neck as lights on the weird machine began to flick on and off and sounds of whirring hard-drives emanated from it. The beast-man clutched at his neck, attempting to tear the collar away amid horrid, gurgling roars of pain.

Giovanni stepped up to the machine, hunting for a keyboard or some control to shut it off. Nothing, apparently, was a control interface. He noticed a large cable coming from the base of the glass cylinder. It ran from just below the machine’s “face” and into the tube. Though obscured by fluid, it seemed to run up to the head of the floating, corpulent body of Rove.
Giovanni pulled the connector out of the machine. Almost instantly, Rove’s body began to twitch inside the cylinder, but the machine went dark, as did the beast-man’s collar.

“I thank you,” said the beast-man. “But you are not safe now. The Shadowy Masters have been alerted, certainly, by the Mastermind going off the grid suddenly.”

“But who—what—are you?”

“It matters little. Let’s just say that I am a figment of an imagination from another time and another network. To protect you—and myself—I must take you away from here and come back and restart the machine.”

“Won’t that also restore your slavery?”

“Yes, but I can work far more effectively here in the guise of one of their minions… the guardian of their laboratory… underground. Also, the machine does help block out memories of the one I lost, and 2 more seasons of progressively-worse dialog.” His husky voice trailed off, lost in memories and recitations of Shakespeare.

Giovanni noticed a wistful look in the thing’s eyes, and could appreciate his pain at the mediocrity forced upon him by too many seasons of commercialization.

The beast-man looked up. “However, I mustn’t let you see where I take you to escape. I apologize, Giovanni.”

The thing lunged; Giovanni felt an impact on his head, then blackness.

~-~

Consciousness returned.

Giovanni’s head still ached, and he raised his hand to rub it. As he became clearer, he was inside his car, and it was outside of a different warehouse.

On the passenger’s seat was the platinum C2E logo and a small scroll. Giovanni turned, and engulfing in the small space behind the seats, was the master’s keyboard.

He opened the scroll to read the words.

These were printed from some form of printing device:

He who has determined the key
Is now a part of C2E

There were also words written in longhand with a pen.

Beware the Shadowy Masters, as they are aware of you. Your mystery intrigues them. You must understand that this was their trap to enlist you for their devious ends. V

Giovanni decided he’d better get back to Yanstebangus HQ as quickly as he could.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

OK, shutting up now;
happy weekend, you mass–
(or individual chemical re-balancing– )
opiate sufferers.

Timothy Leary’s dead.

Long live awareness.

Just because it’s summer, there’s not always a last rose
Baseballs fly into bats, and bats fill up on mosquitoes
Camping corpses marinate in DEET, but still they are a-slappin’
Pedro’s fire works, as does yours, and explosions are happ’nin’

Mother nature’s boiling vengeance, roiling from the Verde Cape
Canes hurry west, and walkers creak feebly– trying to escape
The baleful glare of Old Sol stares into your face until very late
And the fiddling cricket song of heat barely ever does abate

But we can cook with fire
Stumble home from beach, good-tired
Concerts on the lawn
Jammin’ until dawn
Another corny campfire song
About love and ire

The sun shines down on the ritual of SPF one-hundred-ten
Fire on your skin, calling up melanin, it’s Summer again
Even if you just sit around very fast, or labor in meditation
Make the most of it, and call it a vacation.

Hi.

No, you’re not disturbing me at all. I always have time for you. In fact, I’m glad to hear from you… it seems to be kind of rare these days. I know you’re busy. I keep pretty busy myself, as you might guess. I’m happy whenever you take time out to talk with me… I’m here for you.

I’ve just been working on some furniture. It was a cabinet I once saw Norm Abram making on the Old Yankee Workshop show. Surprised? Why? I worked in carpentry for years while I was living among you all. It was good, honest work.

I came there, in what would now be jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, to see how it was for you to live in the working class. I am not into the flashy, royal, silver-spoon-and-limousine treatment. That’s garish.

If I were to sit down on the steps of a big, shiny televangelist’s church altar “set,” during a live broadcast, in my jeans, t-shirt, and boots, would you let me stay? Would you listen to me, or would you have burly deacons escort me out before I could share with you?

I would say that the trappings don’t matter… and if you want to know the simplest way to follow the Way, it’s this:

1. Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.

2. Be excellent to each other.

Yes, Bill S. Preston, Esquire and Ted “Theodore” Logan condensed “Love your neighbor as you love yourself” into the real essence of what I meant.

Station.

One of the greatest followers of the Way, who never called himself Christian, was Mohandas Gandhi. He really got it. Check him out as an example of how to do this gift of life you’ve received.

You know, while I’m thinking of it, I did want to say something about you calling my name, or Dad’s, as an exclamation. We’re both looking forward to hearing from you, and when you use our names to express anger, but don’t ask us to help you with your frustration, it’s pretty disappointing.

Think of someone shouting your name out, like they need you to rush to their aid, and then they bat you away as soon as you respond. Frustrating.

And speaking in that way, please stop being haughty, smug, and sanctimonious. No one likes that… least of all me. I want you all to enjoy life harmoniously. I don’t ask everyone to believe in me, but I do ask my believers to be as considerate to everyone else as they expect to be considered.

That’s why Dad gave all of you free will. No one is a “yes-man puppet.”

I do forgive you when you ask it of me. But please don’t take my concept in vain. Those who cause great wars against your fellow travelers, for oil or strategic military placement against other nations– nations with a hard-core underground of dear friends who call themselves Christians also– and do so in my name– aren’t following the Way. This goes for your cousins, too, who call out to Mohammad as their prophet.

I weep.

The sudden burst of ebullience and wild gesticulation made the bespectacled Murray spill coffee on his pants as he jumped back in his chair. “Zok, huh?” Murray said, voice quavering.

“Yeah, POW! ZOK!” Goldstein was up on his feet, shadow boxing with his own brilliance. “See, the wacko tries to off ‘em some how… gas, bombs, electrocution, something…”

“Maybe a 16-ton weight, huh, Moe?” Murray smirked.

“Yeah! Brilliant! Brilliant!” He flashed his toothy, cigar-stained grin. “I bet that’s never been done before. So, whattayaz say, Mur, ya in or what?”

“Uh… what happens to this deranged, homicidal maniac?”

“Oh, hell, who cares, drop his ass in prison, execute him, send him to the Sears Institute for Catalog Models, whatever. We tie in with this super-group deal, sign ‘em for 3 albums, guaranteed platinum.” Moe’s eyes glazed over as his vision met the austere fluorescent tubes over his head. “Maybe even… movie deal.”

They both stared up at the fluorescent tubes as the angelic choirs proclaimed this holy concept, just at its whispered, reverent utterance. Just as abruptly, they looked at each other.

In unison, two-part harmony: “Nah.”

Goldstein gathered up the hastily scrawled pitch notes with a horselaugh, crumpling them. “Yer right, Murray. . . it’s crap!”

The two shared a belly laugh as the crumpled concept flew into the trashcan.

“OK, Mur, howzabout this? Picture it: we get all these washed up celebrities to learn how to dance, judged by sardonic, washed up dance instructors…”

~-~

Ugh. It’s been really difficult to unfold myself from that wadded-up cocktail napkin and crawl out of that filthy trashcan. I feel so funky. I still have creases in my face. Oh, wait, that’s just wrinkles. No problem, there’s more of them every day in this cell, trust me!

Yes, of course, I know you’re wondering why I’m still here in this cell instead of out enjoying Carnival on the beach in Rio. Well, actually, I prefer it. Why would I want to get out of here and take my family to Brazil anyway?

Duh.

Dear Brother Claghorn. . . faithful readers will recall his equatorial inferences from a former chapter. It turns out his personal walk with the Lord took its own interesting turns, and he no longer required my services. It’s probably just as well, since I wasn’t too keen on swimming in that particular shark tank.

But don’t let me tell you. Let’s turn it over to that Omniscience guy over there at the keyboard. You know, he’s one of those most wicked and obstinate of all creatures. . . The Writers.

Not to alarm you, but you’re in a preserve full of them right now. Shh, be calm. Just post a sign somewhere that says “Free Food And Drink” with an arrow pointing away from you. When they begin shuffling toward it, quietly walk backwards away from the text and proceed with caution well away from it. This method also works with most artists, musicians, actors, and political pundits, so you may want to make a note of it.

Brr. Gives me chills just to think of it. I may see you after a bit; right now, it’s time for exercise out in the yard and then there’s pudding. Peace.

~-~

The grating comfort of a muffled polyphonic cellphone ring tone of “Nearer, My God, To Thee” broke the eerie stillness in Florine T. Meriwether’s doublewide trailer. There was only one person in Florine’s phone who rated a specialized ringer, and she blazed into action upon hearing it.

Barking her shin on a 3-foot-tall bronze “Praying Hands” statue and lampstand, Florine dove for her handbag, madly fumbling through it for the shrilling phone. With her nimble organist’s fingers, she steadied the teetering brass lamp with her left hand as she plucked the phone from the purse with her right. She spilled a few of her Scripture Mints onto the faded brocade of her love seat as the purse tipped in her fervor.

She flicked the phone open with her thumb and forefinger, surprising herself at this small feat of agility. “Hi-low,” she said, with her deep Arkansas drawl. She knew very well who it was, but was never forward, especially with a person of his standing.

“Florine, dearest Florine, my treasured music leader. How are you on this most auspicious day?”

Florine bathed for a moment in the sunshine of recognition. “Why, Brother Claghorn, what a pleasant surprise! I do declare, you’re just a sweet as pie to call lil’ ol’ me. I’m keeping fine, just fixing to go down to the Victory Worship Center and practice a bit for Sunday’s Cantata.” She paused for a moment, then curiosity bested her Southern reserve. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today, is everything alright?”

Brother Claghorn had never taken a wife. He preached sometimes on the celibacy of the office of preacher; he might yet take a wife, should the Good Lord find him a helpmate. This had the unusual effect of Brother Claghorn receiving plenteous help with laundry, lawn care, dishes, full home-cooked meals, and so on from similarly-unattached spinsters in his congregation. Harriet Carter (“no relation,” as she was fond of saying) washed, dried, and folded Brother Claghorn’s clothes. Several of the ladies took turns bringing him meals. Old Rosie McTeague even changed the oil and spark plugs in his SUV and his lawn tractor, all out of Good Old Christian Compassion and True Donut-Viewing Optimism.

Florine, like all the others, had taken her place in that line. She, of course, had special talents and ran her choir with her wispy iron hand. She punctuated all of the Victory worship services with her mellifluous organ and piano stylings. She just knew in her heart of hearts that Brother Claghorn held a special place for her in his.

“Everything is absolutely wonderful, Florine, absolutely great. I know several months back, I had asked you to accompany me and Bobby J. Memphis on a Revival Tour throughout this fine land.” Brother Claghorn paused, recalling it was more Florine’s incidental eavesdropping than a request, but that she would help him in the long run.

“Yes, sir, and I would love to do that! I can be ready soon. I just need to figure out something to do with my cats. Maybe take them to Rosie McTeague’s for a while.” Florine did indeed have cats. A dedicated cat fancier, she had at least 7 feline tenants roaming around the doublewide at any given time.

Brother Claghorn laughed with that warm, engaging baritone laugh he had. “Whoa, now, Miss Florine, there actually has been a change of plans. However, I think you’ll like them.”

Saddened by losing a chance to travel with the dashing evangelist, yet undaunted, Florine asked, “And you still need my help?”

“Why yes, dear Florine, yes indeed. I have been asked to run for Governor, and I would like to have your help in managing Victory while I am running. If anyone I know can whip a team into shape, it’s you.”

~-~

Bobby J. Memphis set his beloved Telecaster™ guitar back into its stand. It had been two or three weeks since he’d seen the rest of Yanstebangus. Billy P. was off doing a film score. Stefano was busy getting his new line of hats together for sale on the Shop At Home Network. Giovanni, always mysterious, had muttered something about a swimming pool and either Cancun or Kankakee, but no was sure what he had actually said.

Regardless, Bobby J. was enjoying the relative peace and quiet in between supergroup touring and superhero adventuring. Most of his relatives, at least, were quiet, except for his daughter, who was just blossoming into a next-generation superstar in her own right. She was out on tour, and her mother went on the road with her. Bobby J. was able to stay home, relax, record songs, and play a few Sundays at Victory Worship Center. Brother Claghorn had made a special request of him.

He sat down at the computer and switched from his music-recording software to email. He dashed off a quick note to the rest of Yanstebangus, asking them to check their schedules and to see if they could get to Tennessee to play a fundraiser for Brother Claghorn’s gubernatorial bid.

The fundraiser would be held at Victory Worship Center because it was a venue that would hold enough people and had media equipment already in place. It also didn’t hurt that Brother Claghorn basically owned the church as well. “This will be a faith-based campaign, Bobby J,” he’d said. “I do believe I hear the Lord calling me loudly and clearly.”

~-~

The restaurant was inky dark, with low-hanging tiffany lamps. Occasionally, the orange of a cigar light brightened, surrounded by wisps of smoke, and then foul bluish clouds roiled about from behind the table, visible only in the cone of light under the lamp.

“I think you’ll be perfect for the job. Just see to it you keep taxes low and businesses open. And don’t mind the tree-huggers. What’s a few birdies when you can ride around in the Governor’s limo, hmmm?”

A fat hand with a pinky ring slid a $500 briefcase surreptitiously across the floor.

“Here’s a little bonus for ya.”

“Why, thank you sir. I do believe the Lord works in mysterious ways.” He pulled briefcase to the side of his chair and tucked it underneath. A toothy smile into the dank room.

The attentive waiter appeared. “Have you decided?”

“Filet Mignon, rare. Black and blue, just hit it a couple times and throw it on the plate,” came the gruff voice from behind the table. “Yeah, and bring me another Scotch.”

“I believe I’ll try the squab… I feel like pigeon today.” Brother Claghorn chuckled and sipped at his Beaujolais.

~-~

Florine enjoyed managing the office at Victory almost as much as she enjoyed directing the choir. Granted, the sounds the old Konica copier made were in no way as sweet as the real pipes on the church organ and the 4000-watt PA system filled with the broken-squeeze-box harmonies of the Victory Choir, but the work was edifying. She was really Doing The Work and Helping The Cause, and she knew it.

The Church Secretary, Gracie May Zing, held the phone out into the room. “Miss Florine, it’s someone checking on a résumé for Brother Claghorn’s campaign…?” She always ended her sentences as if she were asking a question, which infuriated Florine. ‘Make a statement, don’t freakin’ ask me,’ she always said to herself.

Florine nodded and picked up her extension. “Victory Worship Center, Florine T. Meriwether. Why, yes, we did receive it. Ah, no, Brother Claghorn hasn’t started scheduling interviews. He did? Why, that’s odd; he didn’t tell me. Hold on just one second, ma’am.” Florine stabbed the Hold button, exhaling deeply, and exasperatedly held the phone away from her ear for a moment. She cradled the phone on her shoulder and pulled up Brother Claghorn’s calendar on the computer.

She looked incredulously at the entry, but there it was.

She put the phone back to her ear and pressed the Hold button.

“Yes, Miss Mustly, we’ll see you in here at 1 PM tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

She hoped she left a bruise on Miss Mustly’s eardrum by dropping the phone into the cradle.

~-~

All the members of Yanstebangus had finally made it to Bobby J. Memphis’ house. They started to make a playlist for the benefit concert, trying to intersperse all of their trademark mellow sounds with a few rousing numbers to get the audience’s blood and checkbooks pumping. Bobby J. even wrote a campaign song for Brother Claghorn.

~-~

The interview was given by a panel of Brother Claghorn, Florine T. Meriwether, and Godfrey Daniels, a conservative political analyst and long-time friend of Brother Claghorn and Victory Worship Center. Daniels had been named campaign strategist.

Miss Nance Mustly did not have direct experience in managing a campaign per se, but she was able to show off her true abilities, bringing in reams of examples of documentation and cost planning. She had examples of hiring and firing letters, as well as graphs and pie charts of powerful Social Committee cartel activities. She had bound a copy of her documents in a slick binder for each of the interviewers. The page after her résumé was a spreadsheet she came up with just for the interview. It featured budget minutiae like price breaks on various quantities of Styrofoam skimmers and cost analysis by foot of red-white-and-blue bunting.

The interview was cordial, as all such events are wont to be. The panel members thanked Nance, who asked when she might expect to hear from them. Florine piped up and said, “Well, of course, we have several other people to see, but we’ll call you.”

A quizzical expression, a Mona Lisa frown, passed over Nance’s face. “That will be fine, of course,” she said, with a hint of frost to her voice. “But I do hope to hear from you soon.”

Florine smiled triumphantly.

Godfrey Daniels said nothing, but gave a forced, cursory grimace, his usual grudging smile.

Brother Claghorn, however, gave a broad smile and asserted, “You do have an impressive set of skills, Miss Mustly, and you may count on hearing from us again. We do have a few people to see, of course, but we need doers in our organization. I am certainly impressed!”

As Nance ambled to the door with the support of her sword cane, she stopped, turned, and once more said, “I’d certainly love the chance to help you win the Governor’s chair! I do hope to hear from you soon.”

The gratuitous thanks and farewells were exchanged, and Nance Mustly left the expansive, oak-paneled conference room.

“Well,” said Brother Claghorn, “what do you think?”

Godfrey Daniels said, “She’d be OK, I think, a little coaching and she’d do fine. Selling brownies and selling votes, you know, it’s not much different from selling cars or weapons.”

Florine started shaking her head “no” before she spoke, crossing her arms across her chest. She looked straight ahead into space, frowning, not looking at either of the men in the room. “I don’t like ‘er,” she dispensed, with a sharp nod to accentuate her conviction.

Daniels and Claghorn looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “She’s perfect!” said Daniels, who dodged the poisoned darts of Florine’s glare.

~-~

There were a few other interviews, but Brother Claghorn had essentially “spoken,” and they brought Nance in as the Campaign Manager, much to Florine’s consternation and dismay. She set to work on building her staff up, and getting them to work on various functions.

She had frequent meetings with Brother Claghorn and Godfrey Daniels, to which Florine was not privy. Florine sometimes would bring a tray with snacks and a pitcher of strong Southern-style sweet tea into Nance’s office during those meetings. Invariably, the campaign planners would stop, looking up with that slowly-dawning look of shifting focus, and quietly mumble thanks to Florine for her refreshing efforts. They would then go back to scrawling notes on legal pads.

“Thank you, Florine,” called Nance, with her strident, braying voice, once Florine was halfway through the threshold. It was unclear if her gratitude was for the food and drink or for Florine’s leaving the room.

~-~

Posters were soon printed up, to be posted around the state by the burgeoning team of volunteers that was being drawn from the grass roots. Much was by word of mouth, email, and calls between members of all of the True Believer churches. They were simple and understated, the persona they wished to portray for their candidate. His parents had had a sense of humor, and were big fans of radio. They had named him after Senator Beauregard Claghorn on the old Fred Allen Show. He’d shortened his given name a bit.

The motto the Claghorn camp hoped would become a catchphrase:

Go For Bo!

Unfortunately, the opposing candidate’s media folks came up with a decisively muddy smear, and put out posters that said

Careful, Mother,

Beware of Big Brother!

Buster Sturdley For Governor

All in all, it was the height of political infotainment.

~-~

It was Thursday night Choir Practice, and Florine was getting her stack of music together. She at least still had her music to fall back on. She made a few notes on the manuscript, when she noticed the door to the sanctuary opening. It was Nance Mustly.

“Hi, Florine,” came the dulcet, saccharine greeting.

“Yes?” asked Florine, impatiently.

“I was wondering if you could use another soprano in the choir. I know I heard from Louella Frakes that you had one lady leave, since she is related to Buster Sturdley and she was uncomfortable with all this election stuff.”

“Uh, yes, well, of course, you may try out. I can’t guarantee you’ll fit in with our choir. But we can try it.”

The two gave each other the superficial smiles taught to polite Southern ladies when they would like to see the recipient fall into a lion’s den.

“Well, let’s see what you are planning for the service this week. Oh, Bringing in the Sheaves! I love that one.”

She pealed forth with a strong, very passable soprano part, which even Florine could not deny. Other members of the choir had begun to shuffle in and actually applauded at the end of Nance Mustly’s ‘audition.’

“My goodness, that was very good, bless your heart,” said Florine. “Certainly, join in. We can get you fitted for a robe, I think.” She thought, “An extra large robe!”

~-~

What will happen with the Victory Choir?

Will Brother Claghorn get the nod?

And where the heck is Yanstebangus?

Mmm. Pudding. What?

Oh, I see. You weren’t expecting a cheesy tie in to a sequel, just to drag you along. Well. . . all I can say is “sorry.” Tune in again shortly when we return with the next hair-whitening episode of Yanstebangus!

To Be Continued…

Previously…

Gruesome:
I forgot a lot of facts, but I still knew some.
I used to be short, but then I gruesome.

A hapless old witch named Martha McPitch
nearly struck out with her coven.
She baked them a pie called “baseball surprise,”
and vindictively, she left the glove in.

Agglutinate :
If a Glutin ate a lot of glutineats,
it soon would sit upon two glutinseats.

Aplomb:
Little Jack Horner belongs in the corner
as he eats with his thumb; what aplomb.

Counterfeiting queen Brunhilda McKeen
tried to get change for a mistaken eighteen.
Said old Farmer DeVrees, “What would you please,
two nines or maybe six threes?”

Stopping traffic… guiding pedestrians… facing down screaming death machines, hurtling their way toward your extended, white-gloved hands, when all that stands between the huddled, shuffling masses of kiddies and certain doom is you… and your whistle.

We salute these Everyday Heroes… folks like Edgar J. Birdwhistle, Professional Crossing Guard.

Edgar J. Birdwhistle has given most of his life to public service… starting in grade school as a“safety” with the fluorescent orange belt and shiny badge, to service in our military, and then as a cop on the beat of the mean streets of Frog Level, Virginia.

But now, he faces his greatest challenge—and reaps the richest rewards—as a professional Crossing Guard.

He’s got the stance… the vest… the hat… and the cool, hard gaze that stops reckless menaces who are pushing 22 miles an hour in their tracks. You don’t want to hear him blow that whistle,because that means he’s ready to blow you away. Single, file, kiddies, let’s move!

This job isn’t for everyone. But if you’ve got the nerve to face down a swerving minivan full of screaming children being piloted by a PMS-crazed Soccer Mom on Red Bull, it might be for you.

If you’d like to know more, please call us or visit our website, if you can find it.

This message brought to you by Wordchasm and The Ad Council.

An update of a Psychedelic Alt-Rock Christmas tune that I originally wrote in 1994 as a title track for Young Diamond’s Christmas album of that year.

Out of the depths to You we cried,
“Do You know how we live and die?”
To see the answer You gave, we ride
We follow the light in the sky

Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh…

chorus: We seek the One of whom they sing
Through the wasteland, we travel so far
To seek the face of the newborn King
Led by a star

A lowly stable, filled with shepherds and kings
The gift received, no price to high
He’s honored with song, incense and rings
We followed the light in the sky

Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh…

chorus: We seek the One of whom they sing
Through the wasteland, we travel so far
To seek the face of the newborn King
Led by a star

A humble beginning, but fitting somehow
The greatest of all, starting so small
There comes a day when every knee shall bow,
Lit up by the light in the sky…
©1994 – 2007 John Gifford for surplus population music/ independent together studios

Used with author’s permission.

The preposterously monstrous Christmas tree lounged in the corner, moored by guy wires to keep it from spilling joy all over the maple-planked floor. The band of renown (or of disrepute, depending on your view) was set up haphazardly among the lower branches. They were just getting the equipment set up. When the order was given, they would be ready to lay down some serious holiday spirit for their coworkers.

They had labored for months to get to this state of rehearsal and readiness. (It might be better to say that to fit 4 or 5 jam sessions in the name of rehearsing into the last 4 months, everyone squeezed 2 hours out of their busy Sunday afternoons every few weeks. For some of these stalwart lads, it came at the cost of a bit of matrimonial friction, but for want of making noise and a couple of cold beers, the select few struggled to the rehearsals.)

It was a strange concept. The erstwhile “Front Man,” though more of a water-cooler comedian than any form of Singer or Guitarist, had hit on a mildly amusing idea: Share musical expression with coworkers to entertain the rest at the annual holiday party. This stemming from a minor gag about forming a punk band to play all the songs Christmas had to offer. Whatever the lineup, for better or worse, it was always simply dubbed “tinsel,” lower case, little fanfare. Every year, turnover in the office created a different aggregation. Some years, there were many musicians on hand. In lean years, this odd band went on hiatus, due to scheduling conflicts, lack of personnel, or just plain ennui.

On another day, perhaps, we will revisit those strange days of yore. But for today, let’s focus on that last year-the year that was probably the quintessential tinsel. This lineup was probably the closest to the original vision. 2 guitars, keyboards, bass, and drums, vocals almost incidental, but 3 mikes up and live in case any brave souls chose to sing along or play a harmonica amplified.

The Annual Office Holiday Party, named in all its political rectitude, was the centerpiece of the office year, much as the Winter holidays are the centerpiece of the year In Real Life for so many people. Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, New Year’s, Saturnalia, Festivus, and Christmas were all rolled into one safe party. For nearly a decade, it had been consolidated into a whopping 2 hours that the office could be shut down without the sky falling. Certain traditions, especially most of those associated with Festivus and Saturnalia, were not observed too heartily, if at all, at this tee-totaling, “cute” event.

There are as many traditions as people for any given holiday season, and this event was no exception. Months of serious discussion of logistics, food, activities, and the like were conducted at the office. This was the métier of the office’s Social Committee. This organization allowed folks from the office get together to plan fun events for the whole staff. Part Welcome Wagon, part catering service, and part well-oiled fundraising machine, the Committee was the favored child of the mighty Nance Mustly.

She welcomed any staff member wishing to be a Socialite, as tinsel’s erstwhile leader had dubbed them, into the cloistered confines of the Conference Room at the monthly meetings. She knew so much about the running of the office that she could single-handedly perform as the Social Committee; however, she did realize she needed the additional 13 pairs of hands this baker’s dozen of butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers afforded her.

Ideas were slung around the table at the meetings. Many, like spoon-and-potato races and pie fights, were immediately dismissed. However, if 3 or 4 of the women at the huge walnut-stained conference table uttered the word “cute” in regard to a suggestion, that generally suggested the vote for that activity or craft item would pass the muster. More importantly, it would pass the Mustly.

Sudden inspiration of this nature led to a frenzied round of folks offering to work on a facet of The Cute Thing.

“I’ll bring in my elephant’s-foot umbrella stand!”

“I’ll paint the costumes!”

This was the nerve center of the office… the true power in the organization. Certainly, there were tasks assigned by those in the managerial hierarchy; these had their own dynamics and interlinked intrigues, but remained the small subset of “Them.” The Socialites were the corps of the leaders of “Us.”

And “Us” were in their element here at this facility. It was a lovely wooden lodge. The floor decking and the paneling were an almost identical shade of light maple stain. This gave the odd sense that if the building were to tip over, you would still believe you were walking on the floor while walking on the wall.

The Socialites had carefully but quickly decorated the lodge while the band set up their gear. Nance Mustly patrolled all of the areas, her trusty clipboard in hand. She would step up to the small subcommittees and assist each, be it straightening a decoration that 2 folks had just hung up or redistributing chicken wings so that hot and regular were evenly represented on the deli platter. She had left her whistle in the glove compartment; folks were pretty compliant at this party, and there was little danger of walking out into a dark, inebriated stupor after this party. Caffeine overdoses, sure, but no intoxicants.

After all, they reasoned, the holidays aren’t about drinking.

But there were certainly 4 big trays of finger foods laid out. The Keyboard Guy, wisps of bluish ganja smoke still rising from his incidental afro stared, transfixed by the scene, his eyes a lovely holiday shade of carmine red.

“I wonder if anybody cares if I eat?” he asked.

The Rhythm Guitarist shrugged and said, “Yeah, I guess they don’t care. You might have to wait a little while, though.” He nodded in the general direction of the food table.

Nance seemed to be inventorying the celery sticks and tomatoes. She was working out some quick napkin math to ensure that the office ladies could free-range satisfactorily at the veggie tray. She topped off the dish of ranch dressing and spread the broccoli and cauliflower out further on the tray.

The Keyboard Guy chewed pensively on his lower lip. “I think I’ll wait.”

“Good call.” The Rhythm Guitarist plugged a live cable into his guitar. A crackle and buzz, then a howl, as his amplifier drilled feedback into everyone’s ears. He laughed and turned down his amp.

The Bass Player then showed up, with his wife and brand-new baby in tow. The baby was a master stroke– a guaranteed “AWWW” from most of the ladies in the audience.

The Drummer, too, was a family man, also with wife and both of their young daughters in tow. They were well known to his specific area of office workers, and they intermingled quickly. They were also able to cajole a few treats from the clutches of the Social Committee Honor Guard at the food table. It was into this charming breach of protocol that the band members were able to score a few bites of food before the “official invite” to nosh was given.

The Front Man puttered with his guitars, amps, PA system, microphones, and the video projector. A behind-the-scenes member of tinsel, who was restricted from attending this year’s bash, had created a great collection of visuals and lyrics to project on the wall behind the band, and a recent recruit was anxiously anticipating operating the computer for AV support. The Drummer also brought several microphones, and they were quickly put in place. The Videographer, hastily brought in, but well equal to the task, set up her video camera on a tripod and was checking shots and zoom lengths during the equipment-setup fracas.

Once set up, Nance Mustly seized the opportunity of an open microphone and a nice, loud PA system. “Welcome to this year’s holiday party,” she said, in her trademark ‘party’ voice, soothing as an automobile horn. She had memorized the agenda, but raised her ubiquitous clipboard just to the edge of her vision for reassurance. “We have a lot of fun and surprises for you today! Lots to get in in the time we have, so let’s go ahead and get some food, mingle, and then I’ll announce the next activity!”

If food be the music of the masses, then eat on. That was certainly a tune many folks in this peculiar organization could play! Mounds of hot wings, piles of delectable cookies, an ornate vegetable platter with myriad dipping sauces, and a wide range of soft drinks made the folding tables they smothered creak under their combined weight. In a very short time, lines formed around all the edges of the food and drink tables.

Staff reverted to calm cattle mode, trained all their lives to behave well in the incessant Lines of Modern Life. High spirits, friendly chatter, and subdued laughter filled the room. This was the one time of year when “diet” meant Whatever You Eat, not Eat Whatever You Are Told To. No need to ask the musicians in the room twice. The band ate their fill, and labored to rid their fingers of residue in anticipation of playing.

Nance announced the next activity, comprising creating a snowman from marshmallows, toothpicks, and raisins in one minute or less. This afforded the band a chance to get tuned up. The Keyboard Guy, since his instrument was basically the reference tuning pitch, was able to get a 3rd plate of food, which he stashed, squirrel-like, at the base of his keyboard stand.

Finally, tinsel was announced. The band changed sounds year to year, and this year was the most “rock and roll” yet. They led off with an acoustic guitar tune to lure the partygoers in… and then jumped to electric guitars wailing out the wassail.

Many of the staff belay their concert-going heritage; these were the ones who were bobbing their heads and laughing, singing along, and enjoying life. Others were almost in shock at the high-volume defacing of holiday favorites. These were the ones hiding wherever they could from the din. Nance Mustly’s Socialite Sense started tingling. She poised, spring steel at the ready to pounce.

The Front Man was astounded that they had gotten through 5 of their 6 songs so well. It was time for the Rhythm Guitarist to come up and sing the final song of the set. He had his back to the crowd as they wound down the last strains of the rocking blues jam. Most of the crowd was cheering.

As they got ready to launch into the last tune, Nance Mustly’s voice rang out through the PA speakers. “Thank you, guys, that was… something! Wow!”

The Front Man said, “Actually, we have one more tune to play!”

Nance brandished her clipboard. “Sorry, guys, that’s all the time we have. Maybe next year.”

The crowd grew a little quiet, watching the delivery of the humble pie. The Front Man acquiesced, saying, “The show must go on.”

Nance Mustly smirked inside. “Make our ears ring, will ya?” she thought. “Nobody screws with the Social Committee.”

DISCLAIMER
WORDCHASM ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY BOUTS OF NAUSEA PRODUCED BY READING THIS POST. WHILE IT IS NOT RESTRICTED ON AGE LINES, ANYONE WITH A WEAK CONSTITUTION, A SENSE OF ÆSTHETICS, OR IMPECCABLY GOOD TASTE SHOULD AVOID THIS ARTICLE. WORDCHASM MAY FIND, AT SOME AS-YET-UNDETERMINED TIME, THAT WE, THE UNDERSIGNED, MAY PROVIDE AIRSICKNESS BAGS; OUR CHOICE OF AIRLINE, PLEASE.

FADE UP ON
A burning pickle, wreathed in flame, rising from the smoldering pit of brimstone. It squirts a vinegary stream of hot ketchup out onto an unsuspecting hamburger. It roars, unsure of the giant fork flying toward it, but dodges at the last second. The fork flies into the pit, from which a huge, roiling groan of anguish coils, snakelike, into the foul steam rising. The Pickle looks back into the Pit, shakes what passes for a warty, misshapen head, and moves on.

A Hostess Snacks delivery truck pulls up in front of the camera. A Twinkie™ wearing a bandanna tied around his “neck” and a cowboy hat perched on his “head” looks out the window. “They laughed at me at the University,” he says.

DISSOLVE TO
Russell “Professor” Johnson from Gilligan’s Island: “True, but he was doing a standup routine at the time. At that, it wasn’t half bad for a bland, spongy pastry injected with cream filling so sugary it crunches.” A stereotypical Polynesian warrior runs in from stage left and lops off Professor’s head. Blood oozes down his trademark Oxford-cloth shirt as the body collapses onto the sand. The Warrior tosses the head into an also stereotypically boiling cauldron. Mmm… geek’s-head soup.

FADE UP TO
The Pickle, terrorizing the city. The Hostess Snack truck drives along, as if to lure the Pickle toward more mayhem and mischief.

SCENE PULLS BACK TO INSET VIDEO, STACY FLUFFPIECE AT NEWSDESK.
STACY FLUFFPIECE: That was the scene today in the heart of our fair city. Here with the story is our own Al Roquefort. Al?

CUT TO LOCATION SHOT
AL ROQUEFORT (wiping sweat off his prodigious ebony brow): Thanks, Stacy. What motivates a pickle? Why is it terrorizing the city? Is it looking for the legendary hamburger with that shake? Why do I look like Mr. Potatohead?

CUT TO
The Pickle lurches forward, rivulets of chartreuse pickle water emanating from its flesh. An oblivious little old lady shuffles past its shadow, her travel umbrella at the ready. Yellow spatters appear on her tattered, coleslaw-scented cardigan sweater where the threadbare bumberchute doesn’t shield her from the raunchy sweat of the cantankerous cuke.

Somewhere on a street corner, an East German street choir performs songs from Before The Wall Fell, accompanied by an organ grinder with a monkey. The perky beats drive the feet of passerbys to tapping. The six or seven men in the choir suddenly start whistling in near unison. The buildings start to appear to breathe as the scene morphs into a 1930s-style cartoon. The buildings start to cavort, suddenly towering to new, dark heights, as the Pickle turns to the whistling and tapping of the carefree Communists.

Rain spatters the pavement as the gargoyles above, suddenly crapulous with the cloudburst of acid rain, vomit their watery chunderings on the scene below. The very buildings take on the look of acid reflux sufferers, with torrents and fountains of fiery acid blistering their esophagi.

The Communist choir tears apart the hurdy-gurdy to use as rain hats. Still getting the icy tongues of filthy gargoyle effluvia down their backs, they offer up the monkey as a sacrifice. They rip it apart bare-handed, blood and fur drowning in the swill of the rain and pickle juice.

The Pickle looks upon the debacle with indulgence. It raises a huge, horrible hockering noise in its throat. It squelches and swishes the saliva, phlegm, and rancid yellow juice in its pimply, pickled mouth, consummating the vile act by spraying the bloodthirsty choir with the noxious plasma. The onlookers suddenly get that odd lemon-vinegar-bakelite taste in the backs of their throats, feeling their stomachs heave at the dastardly mob scene degrading before their eyes.

CUT TO NETWORK LOGO STILL IMAGE
STACY FLUFFPIECE (Voiceover): You’re watching the World News Network. Stay tuned!

CUT TO COMMERCIAL
Waxed-hair, shrill-voiced beard guy: This is Billy Might. Try new OxyAcetylene Cleaner. Set your cleaning on fire with our new Blowtorch Applicator! If you order now, we’ll double the order, so you get 2 tanks of OxyAcetylene Cleaner. Not enough, you say? OK, we’ll throw in a stiff cleaning brush and a set of rubber gloves. That’s a $20 value for the low price of $19.95. Operators are standing by, on chairs, with nooses around their necks, committed to suicide if we don’t sell enough units. Don’t let their blood be on your hands, order now.

CUT TO COMMERCIAL
[ALEX FROM A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, in the brainwashing chair, eyes clamped open. A beautiful rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony begins to play.]
ALEX: Please, no, not the Ludwig Van!
[Lab assistant, a long-tressed metalhead burnout dude with weasel-like face and gnarled teeth, looks thoughtful.]
METALHEAD: Like, OK, man.
[Late 1980s/early 1990s Hair Metal Ballad Love Will Find A Way starts blaring]
ALEX: Wot the ‘ell is THAT?
METALHEAD: Like, Man, it’s HAIR BANDS RULE, dude. Check it out.
[Titles of Greatest Ballads of Winger, Poison, Cinderella, etc. begin to scroll at a nauseating pace]
ALEX (despairingly): Please. Put the Ludwig Van back on.
METALHEAD: Uh, sorry, dude, like, the button ain’t workin’. Guess ya better buy one!
ALEX: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
METALHEAD: Heh heh, heh heh, heh heh, heh-heh. (muttering) Hmm. Needs more explosions.
[Order info screen pops up]
ANNOUNCER: Hair Bands Rule, a limited time offer from Rustco. Only $24.95 on your Visa or Mastercard.

STATION IDENTIFICATION

CUT TO NETWORK LOGO STILL IMAGE
STACY FLUFFPIECE (Voiceover): We now return you to the Pickle Assault, live. You’re watching the World News Network. Stay tuned for all the latest developments!

SUDDEN [JARRING] CUT TO LIVE FEED
The miserable heat ripples off the hissing street. The Twinkie sweats, viscous, opaque trails of cream filling glacially oozing down its face. Onlookers pry their shirts from their backs and underarms, stuck there by 99% humidity. The Twinkie, preparing for the final battle, removes his absurd Western Stetson hat, 5 sizes too small, and flings it haphazardly into the back of the oblivious delivery van. He makes a lazy 180-degree turn, back toward the Pickle. He slows to a snail’s pace, at the ready to subdue the vigilante vegetable.

The Pickle, suddenly seeming to become doubly enraged at the weaving pastry truck, turns its attention there as it comes to a halt in the middle of the sweltering boulevard. It reaches up and sticks a finger into its own throat, and retches. A tsunami of bile and triple-acidity pickle juice wells up and projects in a orange-brown-chartreuse stream at the hapless vehicle facing it. The paint bubbles and sizzles, as does the pavement that the foul mess drools onto from the now-sagging van.

The Twinkie has no choice. He steps into the street, into the pool of Pickle sputum, and as he does, his feet singe and begin to burn and smoke before he quickly steps to drier but equally as-hot macadam. From the holsters at his sides, he draws two incongruous six-guns, comically large, shimmering in the equatorial inferno of the noonday Summer sun.

He fires, streams of cream filling spraying the Pickle with insensate sweetness. The Pickle roars, kicking at the Twinkie, knocking him down. The suddenly-impotent cream shooters clatter away on the broiling asphalt.

The Pickle sneers at its spongy yellow foe, and raises a huge green foot to stomp it, when it’s pelted by a shower of pebbles. It turns, face hunched in anger, to see the source of the latest feeble insult. A freckle-faced kid, incongruous in the city scene, dressed in ratty overalls and a faded, torn plaid shirt, holds a hand-made tree branch slingshot in his hand. He looks up, realizing he’s extended a silver-platter invitation to the wrath of the demonic dill. Frozen for a moment, he sees there are no more rocks to sling.

The Pickle smiles a warty, gloating smile as it gets ready to demolish this pint-sized hillbilly. However, a camping lantern flashes over the kid’s head where a light bulb would normally be. He digs into his generous, speckled nose and pulls out a greenish gob of snot. Rolling it quickly in the sling, he fires and hits the Pickle in one of its eyes.

The Twinkie has had enough time to collect his death dealing spray guns, coming up large behind the Pickle, and shooting it squarely in the back, keeping the guns trained on it. The Pickle starts to vibrate and shake, undulating in the relentless waves of filling. The filling oozes into its pores. Pickle juice sprays out over the crowd.

Suddenly, a pack of ninjas jump out from the shadows of a building, slicing the gherkin Godzilla into a giant pile of fluttering slices. Unfortunately, they also bisect the brave pastry, who was standing too close to their silent swords of death. As the sword cleaves the Twinkie in twain, its filling erupts and falls over the scene as treacle-sweet, sticky snow. The ninjas spread the remains of the Twinkie and the Pickle out over the street to dry. Smoke bombs explode. Odd, moving, ninja-sized bumps appear under the streets and even in the brick walls of buildings, and, as fast as they have come, they are gone.

CUT TO
AL ROQUEFORT (wiping sweat off his prodigious ebony brow): Thanks, Ninjas and Twinkie. You will be missed. This leaves us all with some questions. Where did this vagabond vegetable come from? Was this a failed experiment from a snacking company? Who’s going to clean this mess up, the squad who always cleans up after ultra-disastrous fight scenes? And of course, the age old question… why do I look like Mr. Potatohead?

FIN (WE HOPE).

It’s gone… withered away. It’s wrapped in its cocoon of new fashions at Back-To-School prices and freshly-minted textbooks. We used to bury it in old grocery bags, taping it to the books, so we could perform artistic resuscitation with Sharpies™ to disguise our 45-lb. Adventures in American History: The Insomniac’s Edition.

It’s a long-lost memory, now, here in the Deep South, where we greet Autumn with the height of Hurricane Season, rather than hot cocoa and plaid.

It used to disintegrate slowly after the last kiss with that person we met at the beach during the rose’s full bloom, insulated from God Knows What by our innocence. That, of course, was lost then, too.

The last rose wouldn’t have passed on so soon, but it’s now much more convenient to place it between the bookends of 20th-Century Commemorations of Military Valor and Hard Work. Its annual birth and death are offset from their “true” astronomical dates, between Solstice and Equinox. Time itself doesn’t mind; we place it as we need it.

We change out of the swim suits and sandals, and lay the last rose to rest in its sunscreen-scented casket. I know I shall mourn it, albeit briefly. There is much to be done between Equinox and Solstice, as the Longest Nights march toward us. We’ll also mourn as the light dies in the sky, but our joy is ensconced in frost, snow, and swaddling cloths.

Alas, poor Rose; I knew you well. If only we could subdue the hustle, bustle, and hassle, and forever chase the infernal bug truck on our Stingray bikes. Would we could inhale your sugary fragrance and the New Jersey air freshener of our youth (DDT) ad infinitum.

Or was that ad nauseum?