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This chapter contains mature subject matter. It should not be read at a distance nearer than 1.352 astronomical units. The characters and plot are probably shamelessly stolen from other sources. If you find themes of transformation to be repulsive, you will be repelled. If you like French toast, does that mean you are a Gallophile? Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 1 by Jacquie Windsor [email protected] "Boadie's late again," sighed Terry, the lead singer and guitarist of Gearjammer. "I just don't think that guy's got the heart to be in a band, you know?" The Dutch boys just snickered. Everyone called them the Dutch boys, since they both came from New York, and their last names began with Van. A lot of people in their crowd didn't even know their real names. Scott, the bass player, was the more vain of the two. He took pride in his physical shape, although his fine blonde hair was already thinning at the age of twenty-five. Anyone who pointed this out would quickly become aware of Scott's temper and his fighting skills. He could be bloodied, but not beaten. Brent, the rhythm guitarist, lived and breathed in the same rarefied intellectual ionosphere as the cartoon characters like Yosemite Sam and Elmer Fudd. He snorted absent-mindedly when perplexed, inebriated, content or annoyed, or any combination of those four states of mind. For Brent, this was pretty much all the time. Apart from playing music, the two enjoyed drinking and fighting as their two favourite pastimes. "Unlax, Terror," said Brent. "Boadie's a drummer. Like, he needs space or whatever and you know it." Terry approved quietly of his unofficial name. He was hardly a terror apart from his searing slide guitar style. He often felt he was the best musician in the group, although the others felt that Boadie added a professional dimension in spite of his erratic behaviour. He glared dolefully at the Dutch boys, fully aware that a combative verbal response could easily start a fist-fight in the rented warehouse where they practised. As Brent had put it, he had to 'unlax'. "At least," he thought, "Johnny doesn't worry about this kind of shit." Terry glanced over at the keyboardist, who was meticulously shining the keys on a bank of synthesisers that dominated one corner of the practise space. Johnny Fairmont was a typical nerd, quietly fond of his machinery, reserved and tolerant. "If I had as many songs rejected by the group as he has, I would've quit a long time ago," Terry mused. "The Dutch boys won't give a chance to anything too wimpy. Shit, they even sped up 'All Along The Watchtower' till it was under two minutes." Terry glanced at the clock, then at the orange bar of light seeping through the frosted glass of the warehouse windows. For all the free time he wasted waiting for Boadie, he could have been doing something worthwhile. His jaded girlfriend of five years had recently ditched him for an insurance salesman, and the odd hours kept by a C circuit bar band prevented him from pursuing a more feasible career. "I have to be out of here before ten," said Johnny, as the orange sunset grew increasingly red. "I do have a class tomorrow morning." "Don't be a fool; drop out of school," jeered Scott, swigging a vodka-spiked soft drink. "Yeah" grunted Brent. The towers of intellect were at it again. Johnny fell silent. As the red sunset deepened into violet, the heavy sound of clomping boots on the metal steps outside signaled the arrival of the drummer. The door burst open to reveal the six-foot-four Boadie, a duffel bag over one shoulder and a cymbal stand in one hand. "I'm here, ladies. And nothing but net, either." "What do you mean? What's the poop?" asked Terry. "Always thinking. And always thinking big," replied Boadie, elbowing past the Dutch boys to deposit the bag and the stand near the drum kit. "Band meeting tonight. No practise. You just got to listen, that's all." Johnny looked disappointed. Terry stared at the linebacker physique of the drummer, wondering what kind of scheme he had in mind. He recalled the time Boadie had pressured the group to travel from their native Idaho to Los Angeles. The quintet agreed to open for The Dickies and 7 Seconds at the Lhasa Club. Some time during the show, their van headlights were kicked out, while inside, they were mercilessly ignored as the crowd drank and grew restless. Finally, the boldest and drunkest people in the room gathered bottles and cans to throw at them until the sound and light guys unplugged everything. Gearjammer was hastened from the stage by the bouncers and left with a cheque that Boadie had neglected to get signed. Broke and hundreds of miles from home, four of the five band members pressured Johnny into calling his parents collect and having them wire money to him. The trip nearly destroyed the band, but Terry convinced Johnny not to make the bail-out an issue by repaying half of the money himself. A year later the band was still intact, but the spirit had dimmed considerably. Rather than dreaming of impending stardom, they played working- class joints in Montana, Idaho and eastern Washington State. It paid the rent. "Terror! Snap out of it, buddy," bellowed the drummer. "I'm talking a straight up deal here. No bullshit." Terry blinked and approached the front of the drum kit, where Boadie had gathered the rest of the band. "Like I said, the transportation is prepaid, so no 1985 all over again," he announced. "We just have to take the van to Seattle and catch a flight out of there. It's in the bag. Just don't think about it." "What deal is this?" interrupted Terry. "Where did you get this from?" "Moonlighting, of course," replied Boadie with a surreptitious grin. "Huh?" The entire group was aware that other touring groups eagerly sought Boadie's talents. Sometimes he would have to cancel his stint with Gearjammer for a week or two at a time in order to fulfill an obligation. At times they knew he was performing with up to five different bands. Still, the four grown boys at Boadie's feet exhaled in mock wonder. "Two words: 'Mercy Wild'," he boomed, gesturing as though viewing the name on a marquee. "What the hell's that mean?" mumbled Brent. "Mercy Wild was the promoter that brought The Screamers to Amsterdam," explained Boadie. "I don't think they ever went, you know?" suggested Johnny. "Well, if they would've, they would've got ten thousand bucks, just like we're gonna make." Terry looked at the Dutch boys, to determine whether they, too, were as sceptical as he and Johnny were. They didn't appear to be. "Is this like a real thing or what?" the lead guitarist asked Boadie. "I mean, we're not even on tour or nothing. How the fuck do we get offered a gig for ten thousand bucks?" Boadie affected astonishment. "I'm worth it," he beamed, thrusting his big thumbs towards his chest. "You guys can be in for the ride or whatever the god damn you want. Or just fuck it and play rat holes from here to fucking Nebraska. "Look, right here, I have a signed contract. All we need is everyone's signature and, for some kind of reason, a recent photo and a thumb print." Boadie drew a sheaf of crumpled papers from his duffel bag and shoved them under Terry's nose. "Got it all figured, then?" replied the guitarist, accepting the document and beginning to skim through the pages. "Abso-fucking-lutely," Boadie smiled. "The plane takes us to some place in Europe. We're gonna play on some island or something." "Corcyra." "What?" "It says here, Corcyra," Terry said, indicating the name on one of the dozens of pages in the contract. "Where the fuck is that?" "It's an island in the Mediterranean Sea," said Johnny, adjusting his wire-framed glasses further up his nose. "More like in the Adriatic, seriously." "Ten thousand bucks" added Brent. "Let me actually real life read this thing first," said Terry. "Some things sound too good to be true and this might be one of them." Boadie merely nodded and grinned. "Do whatever you want, Thoroughgood. Say, Johnny, is this Corcyra place anywhere near a beach?" "It's an island, Boadie. I guess it probably is somewhere near a beach." "God damn styling." Terry spent much of the next five days reading and re-reading the contract. The promoter, Mercy Wild, apparently owned a production company named Circe Exhibitions, Incorporated. That bulky title was shortened to CEI after the first page. Some legalese in the second last page referred to a European branch office in Zurich, Switzerland. The company was directed by Mercy and someone named Hoss Weimar. Tiny print in nearly unreadable font explained that CEI was a subsidiary of Goldfarb International, PLC. In turn, their major stake older was MDCCCLXXXIX, a cumbersome Roman numeral that Terry had no inclination to decipher. "Seems an awfully lot more legitimate than a bogus cheque scribbled out on the hood of a car," thought the lanky musician. "Procul dubio singuli Episcopi, ut fidei magistri, nisi per totius Collegii episcopalis actum ad universalem fidelium communitatem non sese convertunt" Thus began the first paragraph on the backing page. Terry was rapidly losing interest in the contract. The guitarist figured that the amount of detail outweighed any other consideration. "Whoever put this together had a lot of time on their hands. It's only a gig." Terry yawned. Scratching himself idly, he picked up the phone to call Scott. He had already phoned the rest of the band to confirm that the CEI proposition looked like a good one. "Van Heusen residence," spoke a neat female voice. It was Scott's mom. The bass player still lived at his parents' house, although he rarely left his room in the cellar. "Can I talk to Scott? It's Terry." "He is at a basketball game with his brother," explained Mrs. Van Heusen. "May I take a message?" "Oh yeah, tell him to pack his gear. We're going to Cor- something-or-other. The gig's going down. It's just all right." "You boys have such a disastrous vocabulary," chuckled the voice. "But I'll write down your message and give it to him. I know he'll understand it. He's been quite enthusiastic about touring." Two days later the contract was completed. The five band members fulfilled the unusual stipulation of a thumb print and a photograph, and the whole package was shipped by express post to a destination on the East Coast. Terry had left his own telephone number is a return contact, since they needed directions to pick up the airline tickets once they got to Seattle. On the Tuesday morning they were scheduled to leave, the expected call came just an hour past sunrise. Terry was slumped unconscious on the sofa, which doubled as a bed, in the middle of the bachelor apartment. "Oh fuck," he grumbled audibly, grabbing aimlessly at the receiver. "Mr. Gramwitz?" "Yeah, Terry here." The voice on the other end of the line reverberated as though it came from inside an echo chamber. It was disconcerting simply to listen to, and especially at this time of day. "Once you are at the terminal, your preparations will be taken care of. Park the vehicle in the 'Yellow Elephant' zone. If you are unsure where that is, merely look for a large sign bearing the likeness of a yellow elephant. Your arrival is expected prior to sundown tonight" Terry snickered. The echoing voice continued. "There will be a space among six identical Chevrolet-manufactured automobiles. It is designated 'Reserved: CEI' with a banner that you should easily identify. Once you do this, further directions shall become clear. Do you understand, Mr. Gramwitz?" "Yeah, whatever. Go to the yellow elephant and park in the Chevys. How could I fuck that up?" "You could, as you say, 'fuck it up', Mr. Gramwitz, by neglecting to understand. As long as you do understand, the contract shall be fulfilled." "Say, when exactly do we get paid?" "The payment will be performed as the contract is completed, Mr. Gramwitz. That is right there on the document itself." "Oh shit, right," agreed Terry. "What's the gig like? I mean, like, the audience and that. Old? Young? Punky? Rock-a-billy? Easy listening? What?" "They will be satisfactory," came the answer. Then a dial tone. Terry felt like falling asleep again. Yet as slumber threatened to overtake him, the sonorous echo from the telephone call jolted him awake. He climbed off the sofa and peeled on his jeans and a T-shirt. Then he went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a can of Coke, tilted his head back, and swallowed the contents in four hurried gulps. According to the agreement, they would be supplied with a drum kit and amplifiers, so Terry only had to sling his guitar and a small suitcase out the van to begin the journey. Brent, then Boadie, then Johnny, were each picked up at their respective homes, and the vehicle motored to the Van Heusen residence. "I'll go get the motherfucker," offered Brent. "Go ahead. But get him out here now," warned Boadie. "If he screws everything up, I'll shoot the bastard." Brent wandered up the driveway to the front door of Scott's place, pausing once to flick his middle finger back at the rest of the band. Once at the door, he hammered on it audaciously, without a thought for the occupants. There was no answer. The inarticulate Dutch boy rained blows on the door with his fist. Two minutes after he'd first approached the house, he grew impatient and reached for the door handle. It gave way to his fierce grip, and the rest of Gearjammer watched, equally impatient, as Brent disappeared into the house. There was little sound inside the comfortable residence. The floor seemed to pulse with an even rhythm as Brent searched for Scott. He called out once, without reply. On the main floor, the house appeared to be vacant, with a sterile comfort ordinarily reserved for housekeeping magazines. The even rhythm persisted as Brent found himself at the head of a staircase leading down. As he started down the steps, he realised that the rhythm conformed to a tune he remembered hearing somewhere. Halfway down the steps, the sounds were unmistakably that of a song. He simply couldn't place the melody among his repertoire. By the time Brent reached the base of the stairs, he could hear a full band, playing a catchy song. The song was voiced over by a haunting androgynous echo, as though Klaus Nomi and Patsy Cline had merged into a single being. "This is shit music," Brent convinced himself. "Total fucking shit. Scott!" Sensing a pale glow from behind a closed door in the basement, the rhythm guitarist punched it wide open with a single powerful blow. To his utter revulsion, Brent found Scott completely bedecked in a diaphanous frock, crowned with a lustrous blonde wig, and cavorting aimlessly in a room decorated with posters, fabrics and colours he'd expect in a fifteen-year-old girl's room. The place even smelled of lavender and roses. "Holy fucking fuck," screamed Brent. Brent ran up the stairs, clambering like a scared animal, moving his legs and arms at full speed until he reached the van. "What the fuck are you on?" challenged Boadie. "Where's Scott?" "A freaking fruitcake, pansy-ass, motherfucker," bleated Brent. "He's totally gayed out down in his room. Let's get the hell outta here!" Terry blinked at his co-guitarist. "Calm down, Brent, seriously. Where's Scott?" Brent quickly explained what he had witnessed. The rest of the band, including Johnny, laughed heartily at Brent's unsubtle joke. "Yeah, Scott's in there all pansied up like some fruit, right?" chortled Boadie. "Yes, fuck, I told you that," Brent yelled. "So, dingleballs, if I go in there right now, that's what I'll find. Scott in some bitch outfit?" Brent nodded wildly. "OK, Brent, you win this one. I'll go in and find it out for myself." Boadie slid open the rear van door, against the vehement protests of Brent, and the genuine laughter of Terry and Johnny. He walked straight up to the house and into the foyer. There was no detectable sound, but he knew that Scott's room was in the basement. The heavy drummer descended the steps quickly, eager to prove Brent wrong. He scurried to the door to Scott's room, which opened as though by magic at his advance. Boadie nearly ran Scott right over. "What's up?" queried Scott. Boadie craned his neck to see past Scott before the light switch could be turned off. The dark colours of a true thrashcore apostle greeted his gaze. "So where's the lavender?" Boadie asked. "Huh?" "Oh, didn't Brent tell you? He said you smelled like lavender or some lame shit." Scott's eyes blazed. If Boadie didn't have a reputation for being able to absorb unbelievable physical assault without so much as flinching, the bass player would have attacked him right there. "Brent said I'm a fag?" "I think you better ask him," snorted Boadie, noticing that Scott was dressed in the decadent style he always did. No roses. No bouncy rhythm on the stereo. Altogether, there was nothing to remotely hint of the things Brent was raving about. "I take it we're going on this gig?" Scott asked. "I've been waiting whatever for an hour for you fuckheads to show. Five more minutes and I'd have given up." Boadie and Scott returned to the base of the stairs, ascending them and departing from the house. Brent glared suspiciously at Boadie and Scott, as though an awful trick had been perpetrated upon him. The entire drive to Seattle was punctuated with offhand threats between the two Dutch boys, a treat to which their band mates were seldom privy. "Whatever they're on, it's good," Johnny said to himself. "They only pick on each other now, and leave me alone." The airport lights winked ahead as the sun began to cast long shadows. "We're supposed to be here before sunset," mentioned Terry, guiding the van towards one of the vast parking lots surrounding the terminal. Each lot was marked with a different colour: red, blue, green, violet and yellow. Remembering the instructions, he drove past the yellow gate. Long rows of vehicles sat along standards bearing the silhouettes of wild animals. It was easy, as the voice predicted, to find the yellow elephant. The reserved sign, among six late model Chevys, was equally obvious. "I hope none of you idiots brought any dope with you," cautioned Boadie, as the van engine switched off. "This is an international flight and we can probably get dope there anyways." Each of the Dutch boys shrugged insolently. "Shit, I mean it, I ain't telling you for my health. I don't want to miss out on my cut just because one of you superstars got busted at customs." "Fuck you, of course not," Brent hissed. Scott echoed those thoughts. The quintet began to exit the van. Terry was startled to see a tall woman in a navy suit emerge suddenly from around another van. It was situated just on the other side of a low concrete barrier, next to one of the cars that marked the reserved spot. He felt a tingling on the back of his neck, as though an electrical current was passing nearby. The slim guitarist turned towards his four cohorts. Although he was able to move freely, he noticed that each one of the four appeared to be rooted to the spot as though frozen in time. He swung around to peer at the woman. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "Who are you?" "My name's irrelevant," smiled the woman. "I see you've largely met the conditions so far. I believe the only thing left now is to get you guys on a plane." Terry squinted at her in disbelief. How could she be carrying on so nonchalantly when something was so apparently wrong? "What's happening here? I feel real weird, and my band looks like they're all frozen." The woman looked about quizzically. "I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Gramwitz. You and your band are basically on schedule. You're not on drugs or something, are you?" Terry ran his fingers through his dark hair, then wearily down to his neck. That seemed to stop the tingling sensation. "Maybe I'm just tired from the drive. I just don't know. Something seems, like, different, I guess." The smartly dressed woman nodded. "Probably you're just tired. It's nothing. Just get the gear you have and place it into the rear of my van. We need to use a private airstrip, not the main airport here." At the woman's leisurely direction, Terry unloaded the equipment himself, stepping around the others who continued to stand motionless nearby. At the same time, he felt a compulsion to do all the work without questioning the woman any further. "It must be my imagination," he thought, taking the last load out of their band vehicle and securing the latch before trudging over to where the woman stood. He climbed willingly, somewhat exhausted, into the back and laid down quietly on the carpet near his guitar. Placing a tired hand on his own neck, Terry massaged the spot the tingling emanated from. He felt his own breathing become uneven and forced. He blinked and glared through a spotty mist as Boadie's square- jawed face loomed over him. "Terror. You all right or what?" The guitarist tried to sit up and get his bearings. The van was not their own, and it was obviously moving along the road. "You guys. What happened?" "I think you passed out, Bud." Terry realised that the other four band members were also crouched in the seatless rear area of the vehicle. The tingling was gone from his neck. "We're going to an airstrip, right?" "Yeppers," nodded Scott. "So who was the woman in the suit?" Boadie's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Terror, just 'cause Brent's seeing shit don't mean you are too. Stop fucking around. You just hit your head on the door after you parked the van." Terry rubbed his head, where a bruise hid in his scalp. "For real?" Boadie laughed. The others joined him. Terry managed a vapid grin. "I must just be tired, you know, distracted and shit. Long drive." "Any excuse, Bud," acknowledged Boadie. "So, we're all here. Who's driving?" "The CEI dude," replied Scott. "Just like Boadie said. Piece of cake, you know." Terry relaxed and joined the others in a freewheeling banter, trying to shake the ethereal cobwebs from his mind. He wondered, though, whether the jarring memory he'd had about the woman and frozen time were similar to what Brent had experienced back at Scott Van Heusen's house. As darkness crawled in for the night, the van turned down a bumpy side road towards their departure point, and he knew there would be time, later, to buttonhole Brent and get his version of events. The vehicle ground to a stop. Terry saw, as Boadie had promised, that it was a male figure who emerged as a dark silhouette as the side door rolled open. "Off we go," urged his voice, "just pack up what you got and let's get sailing." The group shuffled out of the van, unloaded the gear, and followed the man towards the roar of a small jet. They traversed a dry grass field and a short stretch of asphalt, clambering onto the plane in relative silence. Naturally, the jet engine roar drowned out everything else, only subsiding once the cabin door was closed. Within a few minutes, the man disappeared into the front of the aircraft, the cabin pressure was adjusted, and the plane accelerated down the runway and into the black skies. "Excellent rush, man," nodded Scott. "Love the way these little planes sort of just take off." "You've been in one of these before?" asked Johnny. "Yeah, of course. Flew one for the mujahedin in Afghanistan, man. Absolutely." Boadie wrinkled his nose at Scott's boastful lie. "Get any Nepalese Temple Weed off them, Scottie?" Scott grinned and nodded, unaware that Boadie had simply invented a type of pot. The drummer thought for a few seconds, then decided against beginning a fist fight in the jet. He felt relaxed and confident, especially with the prestige of having found this easy gig for the band. The interior of the jet was comfortable, with plush individual seats facing forward and offering plenty of legroom. Brent and Johnny sat near the front, followed by Scott and Boadie, with Terry occupying a single seat near the middle rear of the cabin section. "Pretty stylish jet," Scott said to Boadie across the wide aisle. "Can't complain about the transportation, hey?" Boadie attempted a response, but his attention turned to a small screen descending from the ceiling of the cabin. It covered the door to the cockpit in a deliberate, casual motion. "In-flight entertainment," said Terry. "No problem." The lights in the cabin dimmed as a wide beam of white shone from just above Terry's head. All five of the young men had a perfect view of the screen. "Yabba-dabba-doo!" shouted the familiar image of Fred Flintstone. "Flintstones?" groaned Johnny. "This is just dumb." The jet streaked noiselessly over the Great Plains. Inside, Fred and Barney were entertaining the band with double the effect that Hanna or Barbera expected. Scott grinned at the slapstick antics on the screen. The vivid colours and easy dialogue kept his interest, taking his mind off the long flight to Greece. "Wil-mahhhhhh!" yelled Fred. "Where's my dinner?" "Coming, Fred," said the impossibly thin waisted wife of the quarryman. She carried a plate of oversized ribs to the table. "Oh Fred, Brent wanted to tell you that he was going to the Loyal Order Of Water Buffalo meeting at the bowling alley tonight. Now you know I don't like you hanging out all the time at the bowling alley." Scott leaned forward in his seat. He was sure that Wilma had just referred to Barney Rubble as 'Brent'. "Well you can tell that sawed off runt that tonight's my night to shave my legs and watch soap operas with my Wilma." "Oh Fred, you're such a sissy," cried Wilma. She reached for the seashell telephone to call the Rubble residence. "What the fuck is this?" bellowed Scott. Boadie glared over at the bassist. Scott appeared to be delusional, scowling at the humorous delights portrayed by the Flintstone characters. The bulky drummer watched Scott, rather than the screen, slowly gathering a logical link between the experiences related by Brent and then Terry. And now, possibly, by Scott. Scott's interpretation of the cartoon became increasingly different than what the others were seeing. His version displayed Fred as a cross-dressing neurotic who was fixated on housework. "Tyum-te-tum-tum," warbled Fred, garbed in a lavender frock, his permanent five o'clock shadow deeply rouged. He sat cross-legged in a chair in the stone house, darning some socks. A nearby porcupine glared quizzically as Fred plucked a new needle from his nest of quills. "Oh boy, now the lady of the house is looking for a prick," complained the porcupine. Scott leapt from his seat, screaming at the screen. Boadie intercepted him, knocking him forward onto the floor between the seats where Brent and Johnny sat. "What the fuck is wrong with him?" sneered Brent. "I don't fucking know," yelled Boadie, pinning one knee into Scott's back. "He's out of control. Damn he's a wiry fucker." Brent refused to help Boadie, imagining it to be a personal argument best left among them. Besides, he wanted Scott to hurt a little since the scene at the Van Heusen house, and especially since nobody had believed what he'd seen. Boadie was as forceful as he could be, restraining the blonde Dutch boy by locking one arm behind him and leaning much of his weight into the knee in the centre of Scott's back. Scott heard only the roar of Fred Flinstone's hearty belly laugh resounding in his ears. "Barney!" squeaked Betty Rubble. The screen was out of Scott's line of sight as he wriggled in futility beneath the ponderous weight of the drummer. "Barney, you can't wear my negligee tonight." "Uh, why not, Betty? Looks like it fits pretty good good good." The laugh track from the cartoon seared into Scott's mind. "I know, Barney, but that's the one I bought for your boss's birthday. Mr. Slaterock will be so happy in it." "Aw, Betty, but I was just getting used to wearing it. Mr. Slaterock don't appresh-elate good sexy clothes like I do." "Barney Rubble," Betty retorted, "you'll get out of that negligee this instant or you and Fred will never be allowed to do the stroll behind the bowling alley any longer." Scott's face contorted with uncontrolled anxiety. As the jet coursed through the black skies, he felt helpless. A powerful reverberation shook his head and heart. As he felt himself lose control of his sanity, another sensation began to surge through his body. Pinned under Boadie's formidable weight, he realised that his assailant had managed to loosen his pants and pull them down to his knees. The sterile air of the aircraft momentarily caressed his buttocks. Then, heat and friction combined as a large object touched his rectum, then plunged inside with a deep, hard thrust. Scott screamed. "Get off me. Help. You're fucking my ass, you bastard." The transvestite antics of the Bedrock denizens seeped into his mind amid panic and revulsion. "I'm gonna fuck you silly in your sissy lingerie, Barney ol' boy," crowed an elated Fred. "I'm gonna make you my bitch," heard Scott, with Boadie's cock working his ass like a jackhammer. "Make me your Wilma," howled Barney. Scott heard himself scream again. It was a bubbly and idle squeal, rather than a genuine shriek of terror. "Oh yah, Boadie, fuck my hot ass?" In a hallucinatory juxtaposition of sexual expressiveness, cartoon-like caricature, and complete exhaustion, Scott felt a throbbing in his anus, even as he glowered over his knees, hands clamping his legs to his chest in a seated foetal position. Brent and Johnny were turned half around in their seats, staring at him, with Boadie and Terry turning their heads with a show of concern on their faces. The uncomfortable throbbing continued. Scott was frightened and annoyed at what had happened, and suddenly realised that the entire band was looking at him as though he was crazy. "I'm not crazy. You guys. Why didn't you stop Boadie?" "Stop him from what?" asked Johnny. Scott gulped. "From, uh, raping my ass." Brent snorted and giggled at the same time. "Raping your ass?" asked Terry. Boadie ventured a comment, then sank back into his seat. He felt that something was wrong, since Brent, then Terry, and now Scott, had each claimed to experience a different version of events. But this time he had witnessed Scott's strange behaviour, and had to exert force to prevent him from jeopardising their mission. Scott glared at the screen at the front of the passenger compartment. The Flintstones were acting out an absurd drama. Fred pretended to be the Kissing Bandit to make Wilma more appreciative of his worth. He wasn't dressed up in lingerie, nor was Barney to be found dancing in the daisies wearing only a corset. Scott became sullen and anxious, rocking back and forth on his seat in anticipation of a renewal of the delirium. As the aircraft sped further away from their Idaho roots, the group became increasingly tired. The films eventually stopped playing, and each member nestled into his seat and began to snooze. All except for Scott, whose eyes remained fixed on the blank screen, and whose heart continued to pound at a rapid tempo. The dark tint on the jet's windows hued the rising sun in a deep violet as the Atlantic Ocean frothed beneath them. Once the plane began to descend, the cabin pressure changed, gently moving each slumbering musician from the world of dreams into shining reality. Boadie yawned, stretched, and leaned towards Scott. "You get a good sleep?" "Yes," snapped Scott, lying. Through the windows, Johnny peered at the black sea underneath them, and as the descent became more rapid, noticed the colour changed to a deep aqua, with individual swells gradually becoming discernible. Broad bands of land grew across the horizon. "Should be North Africa over there, if I'm right," he pointed. "That means the Greek islands would be straight ahead somewhere." "Somewhere," Brent grunted. "Fucking keyboard genius." The plane closed the distance with the sea below, and pitched to the port side as the engines screamed in their ears. "Ready to land," supposed Terry to himself. Ten minutes later, the jet indeed touched down on a long airstrip cut along a narrow point of land. On one side of the plane were brown cliffs; on the other side was the sea. The strip left little room for error either way, but the landing was smooth and effortless. A raspy voice, containing the hint of a foreign accent, made an announcement over the P.A. as the engines went silent and the aircraft stopped completely. "Gearjammer, welcome to Corcyra. May your stay be pleasant and safe." The group expected a crew member to appear at the doorway to the cockpit. Instead, a side door clicked, moving by an invisible hand, and sturdy metal staircase rattled up to the exit. Terry shrugged, sat up, grabbed his guitar case, and wandered over to the stairs. "Hey there, we're coming right down," he called out to a pair of men holding the movable staircase at its base. He immediately became aware of the heat, which he hadn't expected. "Kind of warm, ain't it?" winced Boadie, clamping a pair of sunglasses to his head to face the daylight outside the plane. "Fucking hot," Brent agreed, similarly donning sunglasses. Soon all five band members had exited the plane, Scott being the last, with their minimal luggage in tow. The two men ushered them across the narrow tarmac towards a dusty trail that quickly led to a cascade of steps cut into the hillside. "You guys talk or what?" bellowed Boadie. "Or what the fuck?" "Maybe they don't speak English," Terry wondered aloud. "We speak English, of course," said one of the guides. "But perhaps it's better to save the effort for the climb." "Oh shit, how long is this hike gonna be? I mean, no limo?" Scott complained. He wished he'd worn lighter clothing, instead of the black Scratch Acid sweatshirt and black leather shit kickers. The guides did not respond, climbing each step deliberately, with the visitors clumping along behind them. Johnny nudged Terry as they paused on one of the steps leading upwards. "Ask them what that means." "What means?" Terry growled. "That." The coarse clothing worn by their hosts each had an emblem stitched onto the sleeve, nearly on the shoulder blade. The patch bore a red and yellow insignia, with some wording that neither American could figure out from that distance. Realising that he would need to elbow past both Boadie and Brent to approach the guide, Terry opted to wait until they'd climbed to their destination. Brent, walking just ahead of Terry, appeared to be sighing heavily, and several times looked like he was about to drop his guitar case. Terry caught up to the rhythm guitarist. "You all right, Brent?" The slender Dutch boy slouched away from Terry. His breathing sounded more and more uneven. Terry touched him on the shoulder. "Are you OK?" "Don't touch me," Brent hissed, turning suddenly towards the group's lead guitarist. Terry noticed his eyes appeared to be bloodshot, and his face was streaked with moisture. He peered closer, looking for evidence of exhaustion or overheating, yet was struck with a shocking realisation. Brent was crying. Those were tears rolling out of the corners of his eyes and down his cheek. Out of sight of the other band members, Terry slowed down and kept Brent nearby with a firm hand on his shoulder. The Dutch boy made no attempt to flick his hand away. Once Johnny and Scott had passed them, he squared to face Brent. "What's wrong? Don't worry, nobody's gonna hear nothing." "It's those pipes. Flutes or something. They're just so sad," Brent replied. The footfalls of the other three were far enough ahead that Terry could cup his ear and listen intently for the sounds. Nothing. "Brent, you'll think I'm nuts, but I can't hear nothing. No pipes or whatnot, anyhow." Brent gazed at Terry, misty-eyed. "You can't hear them? I guess I can't explain it. They're, like, my pipes or something." Terry was possessed with concern, but tried not to let on to Brent that he was hearing things. Something else concerned him, too. Brent wasn't snorkling and sniggering like a hillbilly. He was speaking properly. That was unheard of. "Brent. Just listen to me. Don't listen to the pipes. We have to go and play a gig here. It's just a pile of easy cash and then we go home. That's all we have to do. Follow me. Please keep up, OK?" At Terry's urging, Brent proceeded up the rough-hewn stairs. Once or twice he nearly broke down in an emotional futility, but each time Terry subtly prodded him onwards. Johnny's questions would have to wait. Right now Brent was a handful. The seven men continued to climb, with the spacing widening as they progressed. The two guides were several paces ahead of Boadie, with Johnny sweating and panting behind him. Terry kept Brent climbing, although the rhythm guitarist was suffering from a slothful delirium. "Those birds are from hell," he spat, as a pair of Mediterranean sparrows twitched and sang from the gnarled branches of a laurel tree. "They shriek because of the pipers. They are envious and cold." Terry felt Brent hang off his shoulder, muted in his contempt for the passionate, almost poetic, speech he was dispensing. The cliff-hanging stairs began to level off, none to soon for the tired quintet. Boadie peered through the dusty wind and saw a great stone building perched on the crest of the hill. He looked around to see the rest of the group following at their own beleaguered paces. From this point, too, he could see the sea stretching between the island and the craggy phalanx of the Greek shoreline. In the other direction, the sea filled the horizon. He turned back to follow the guides, who were quickly approaching a sturdy gate set into the structure's walls. A two-headed eagle stood as a sentinel over the archway, etched in the same sandy stone as the rest of the building. "Fucking old castle or something," he shrugged towards the sweat- soaked figure of Johnny. "Next time we do something like this, we've got to make sure we have a change of clothes. I'm wetter than a flounder." "Smarter than one, too," joked Boadie. "Come on in. Those guides are already way the fuck ahead of us." Inside the building, the corridors provided welcome cooler shade, with natural light seeping through overhead slits cut into the ceiling and a sparse setting of torches providing further illumination. The guides stepped quietly in their padded shoes, refusing to slow down or turn to offer help. Boadie and Johnny quickened their pace to catch up. They were almost out of sight when Scott entered the structure. The natural light glowed with a deep red. Several passageways wound off from the narrow, tiled hallway. After several yards, the bass player stopped and looked to the left and the right. Then behind. "Where are you guys?" he asked cautiously. "Boadie? Johnny?" Scott was certain he'd seen them enter, but he couldn't hear them walking. He knew Boadie was wearing heavy boots, and should have been sufficiently noisy within the stark interior of the building. "Hey, Boadie. Where the fuck did you guys go?" Only his echo responded, so Scott headed down the passageway he assumed they had proceeded. As he walked, the corridor seemed to vibrate with colour and sound. He kept on. The corridor slithered ahead of him, yet he continued unconcerned. A breathy whisper filled the hallway along with a sweet scent. "Diamonds." Scott tiptoed, cupping an ear to listen for the whisper again. "Diamonds." "I don't think I heard that right," he replied in a wary voice. He brushed along one of the bare walls, holding himself upright as he followed the direction of the whisper. "Diamonds." Scott slid his fingers through his hair, peering into the murk of the downward sloping passageway. The tips of his fingers felt good against his scalp, slowly drifting his lengthening hair away from his face. His step and pulse became faint and delicate. "Diamonds." Scott gasped in pleasurable surprise. The twisting corridor led him to a beautiful room. Velvet drapes covered the far windows. Mosaic tiles formed colourful patterns on the floor. "This is so gorgeous," he said to himself. "Wait, what am I thinking?" He looked down at his feet, conscious of a sudden cooling sensation. As a strand of long blonde hair flopped into his eyes, he looked at his toes. They stuck out, painted red, from the open toes of a pair of white, plastic sandals. As he leaned back in shock, his heels teetered precariously on their suddenly acquired elevation. "Why do I want diamonds?" he thought, rotating his body slightly on the rigid high heel of his right shoe. A vast mirror on a vanity along one of the walls reflected an image he was unprepared to see. Instead of being encased in slovenly jeans and a shirt, his body flowed in easy curves. The looking glass portrayed a picture of sensuous, blonde, female grace. "This can't be happening. That isn't me, it's a girl," Scott tried to convince himself. "This castle must be haunted or something." He rested both hands on the vanity and shook his hair from his face. He looked over at the door through which he had passed, to follow the eerie voice that promised diamonds. To his dismay, he noticed that a stone surface now extended the entire length of the wall. The only opening he could detect, after scanning the room, was the shielded window. Click, click, click. His heels resounded on the patterned floor as he made his way to the window. With reservation, he reached out with a delicate, smooth arm to part the velvet drapes. The window was fixed with three vertical bars set into the masonry. Beyond them, Scott saw a spectacular ocean view, with the waves crashing into steep cliffs descending from a narrow ledge just outside. He turned around again, absent-mindedly sucking on a long laminated fingernail, to scour the room for another exit. Then, peering again through the sturdy bars. They were set far enough apart that he could slip his head through to better judge his location. To the right, the narrow ledge eventually cut under the building, leaving the impression that the foundation was formed from the stone cliff itself. To the left, the ledge ran unevenly for several yards. Then a pair of bushes emerged from the rock, obscuring some of his perspective. Past the bushes, it appeared that the edge of the building nestled into a crag, beyond which there was nothing he could see from his present vantage point. Scott slipped his head back into the room. He wandered over to the edge of a large bed and sat to contemplate his fate. He clasped his hands together as though in prayer and gazed at the floor. The mosaic tiles formed a double-headed bird of prey, with tiny coloured squares forming letters, around the image, in an alphabet he couldn't decipher. "I wish I knew what was happening to me," he despaired. "This is just too fucking weird." He stood up, becoming better accustomed to walking on the high heels strapped to his feet. He checked the stone wall that covered the entrance to the room. There was no evidence of a secret panel or any other means of escape. "Escape. It's really escape. I'm in fucking prison," he decided. Scott's voice surprised him in its chirpy tone. He wrung his hands at his sides, frowned, and stalked over to the window once more. He grabbed two of the vertical bars and pulled as hard as he could. They would not budge. He stuck his head between them once again, to squeeze his body through as far as he could. Although his head fit, his narrower female form was still too large to slip through them. He was able to push through just past his shoulders, but his rib cage prevented him from extending himself all the way. As he looked down, the ledge appeared to be mere inches wide. The sea churned far below, almost far enough to make him feel dizzy. He inhaled suddenly and extracted himself from the bars. He seized one of the metal cylinders with both hands and tried to wrench it loose. To his amazement, the bar he chose turned in his grip. As he continued the rotating motion, the masonry began to erode in small grains at the base and the top. Encouraged by his success, he kept at it. After nearly an hour of working the bar, summoning an internal strength to counter the weakness he felt in the female body, the metal was practically separated from the stone work. With a single, great, final push, the bottom of the bar cracked through the softened stone. Scott's furious last push almost threw him forward with the heavy object. He loosened his grip at once and the bar tumbled edge over edge, down the cliff and into the sea. "Shit, shit, shit, so now what? This get-up ain't hardly mountain-climbing equipment," he sighed. Scott turned around to assess his options. In spite of its accoutrements, the room seemed to be nothing less than a gilded jail cell. The narrow cliff top outside the window, on the other hand, represented both danger and freedom. "I can't stay in here. I'd rather die and take my chances," he confirmed, quietly. With boldness wrought from fear rather than common sense, Scott walked over to the window, lifted the hem of his clingy, silvery gown, and stepped gingerly onto the ledge. First his right foot. Then, balancing himself and gripping one of the remaining bars, he swung his left leg through the opening until he was perched on the ledge, completely outside the prison room. He looked upwards, then towards the bushes that still obscured his view towards the left. Upwards, the outer face of the structure seemed to meld with the sky. There was no way to climb the smooth stone. As he searched the wall along the direction he intended to move, though, he saw that several horizontal clefts might offer some kind of grip. "If my nails hold out," he mused. Slowly, painfully, with a soft wind curling his long blonde tresses into his face, Scott started along the ledge. As his left hand let go of the last bar, he was completely at the mercy of the ledge and the cracks in the wall. And the strength of his nails. Over the faraway din of the crashing waves and the palpitations of his heart, there came a third part to the chorus. Fuzzy and distorted. "Guido's swarm of bees," Scott remembered. Guido was a part-time busker who once tried out for Gearjammer the previous year. He produced an effects box that was home-built from a Radio Shack kit. The ensuing guitar sound was neither exactly music nor noise. Instead, it resembled a furious collection of winged insects in search of a field of honeysuckle. "Shit, here I am in a dress and heels, climbing a fucking cliff in the middle of nowhere, and all I can think of is Guido and his goddamned swarm of bees?" The distorted noise became louder, closer. Scott shivered in the warm breeze and turned to look away from the wall, in the direction of the awful noise. He saw what first appeared to be three dragonflies, grotesque flying insects with translucent wings flapping powerfully in the Adriatic sky. His mouth fell partly agape as the dragonflies rapidly approached. They were not insects. The noise they emitted was not from their wings but from their throats. Their flight was rapid and determined, straight at Scott. His perch on the ledge was in enormous peril as he distinguished the hideous beaks protruding from the heads of the creatures. They were mere yards from him as he teetered, wheeled, and began to fall. The nearest winged creature plucked him, mid-air, stopping his inexorable descent. Grasped in a set of powerful claws that extended from the thorax of the lead beast, Scott's female form was pulled from imminent death and carried off. --- [email protected] This tale is the first chapter. We will be back soon. You can quote us.