Music of Change 3 We Could Be Heroes
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I wasn’t there myself, but the story was all over town… About the time that the plane crashed into Empress Chili and the Ninja Twins went on their killing spree at the Lucky Star, Mommyrot who had been playing at the Plexiglass Onion mysteriously lapsed into My Name is Bocephus by Hank Williams Jr., which in turn lured Santa Claus and countless other innocent victims to a horrible death from a Nuclear Wastoid in a Garfield-covered package. Fortunately, the day was saved and everyone was brought back to life, thanks to Squasha and the miracle of coffee nips (a small piece of coffee flavoured candy… only five cents, but highly addictive). (Something for which I was personally grateful, because not only do I like the band Mommyrot, but one of my best friends, Cat, was among the dead.)
No one thought much of it after the culprit, Frank from Empress Chili, was mailed to the police. But several weeks later I went to the Plexiglass Onion to see Rednecks In Pain perform. The lead singer, Cat, as I mentioned before (in an innocent looking aside), is one of my best friends and I really dig their music, so I rarely miss a show. Zero Power was opening for them, and my ability to dig their music was pretty much on par with my ability to dig RIP’s music, and I’m friendly with them too, so I was quite happy with the double-bill.
There wasn’t much else to do on that Friday evening, and I’d gotten quite bored with throwing darts at my Jerry Falwell poster, so I arrived several hours early. I wasn’t the only one with nothing to do but turn up several hours early to a punk-rock show at the Plexiglass Onion, and the front lot was occupied by some of the locals.
‘Animal!’ yelled several armadillos who’d decided to move up from Texas after a brief visit several weeks earlier, despite some of the anti-armadillo sentiment displayed by some of the restaurateurs in the area. The overall sentiment of the punk scene here was pretty armadillo-positive, and they’d made lots of friends in a short time. Besides, Texan restaurateurs are a far cry worse than Tennessean ones, when it comes to mammals with armor plating. I greeted them each in turn with heartfelt hugs, as well as some young punks, weasels and penguins who were doing handsprings and cartwheels up and down the sidewalk.
‘Nice tail,’ said one of the weasels, referring to the long fluffy squirrel tail that I’d sprouted when I put my hat on a short time ago.
‘Thanks,’ I answered.
‘He’s always had a nice tail,’ said Angela, one of the punk-rock girls sitting on the sidewalk.
‘Thanks to you too,’ I grinned at her, and she came over and hugged me. I swear if I were six years younger, she’d be my girlfriend. Or more likely, I’d be too shy to talk to her. Anyway, she was really cool, and a good friend. ‘Do you know if Cat has arrived?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been inside yet.’
I was about to go in and see for myself, when the door opened, and Quicksilver flew over my head and landed in a heap. Quicksilver was the leader the SilverHawks: a group of space-traveling dimwits (of a partly metal and partly real genetic makeup) from the Limbo galaxy, who decided that Nashville would benefit from their presence somehow. I would agree except that Nashville already had enough drunken moronic Menudo fans who verbally abused homosexuals, racial minorities, punk rockers and armadillos. The rest of the lunkheads, SteelWill, SteelHart, Bluegrass and the Copper Kid, ran out after their leader. They helped him to his feet, dusted him off and checked him for bruises. I could see that they’d all been drinking heavily (so what’s new?), as they all staggered and slurred their speech. And you have to be pretty drunk to stagger your speech!
‘Ooooo-Wheeeee!’ yelled Bluegrass, angrily. ‘We shud charggupr weppins, an’ takeis place out!’
‘No Bluegrass,’ said Quicksilver, ‘nowisnotthtime!’
‘Thcoachsright,’ said SteelWill. ‘Thisis onythe furssth qrtr. Will messemup good affer hafftime.’
‘Lesgohomm. Ineeda geddisbraoff,’ slurred SteelHart, even as she removed her brassiere under her metal top and tossed it with a clank on to the sidewalk.
‘Hey! Waddreyoulookinat, Hippie!?’ shouted the muscle-bound jock-boy oaf known as SteelWill. He had a dangerous belligerence in his eye, which made my tail twitch nervously. His other eye just sort of drooped and watered, and didn’t make my tail do much of anything in particular. ‘Youwanna fuckmy sisser ersumpin’?’
‘No,’ I said foolishly.
‘I thinkiessayin’ yer sissers not goodenuffferim,’ suggested the Copper Kid, from his position behind SteelWill.
‘My sissers not goodenuff foryaden?’ asked SteelWill. ‘Izzatwhutyersayin’?!’
Shit! He was getting angrier. How do you answer a belligerent drunk when he asks you something like that? ‘That’s not what I meant!’
‘Heee duzwannafukker!’ said the Copper Kid.
‘OH! ShoyouDO wannafukker!’ SteelWill moved towards me, with clenched fists, while the Copper Kid egged him on. Dammit. He was determined to fight me, no matter what I said. What now?
Before he could throw the first punch, SteelHart got between us and poked my chest with her metal-tipped finger, almost hard enough to separate my ribs. ‘Yoooo leevimalone! Iwooddenfuckyou iffyouwere myonybrudder!’ she said to me with venom in her voice. ‘C’mon guys! Lessgota myplace anhavvadrink!’
‘Hail yeah!’ said Bluegrass. ‘An we’ll smassese yahoos lader!’
‘They’llbesorry they evvermesstwitme!’ slurred Quicksilver. And then they flew off into the distance singing, ‘Wingsufsivver, nersufsteeel…Parlymeddal, parlyreeel…Soaring threwwahighway uvvahevvinsineirfight–SivverHiccupawksa rainbow innanight!’
‘Damn, Animal,’ said Ben, one of the armadillos, ‘are you alright? Yer shakin’ like a leaf.’
‘I’m fine. Just a little adrenaline surge.’
‘You coulda taken them,’ said a weasel named Wally, who was perched on my left shoulder. ‘I’ve seen you use that Kung-Fu of yours. Besides, we would’ve gotten yer back!’
‘Yeah!’ said several others.
I appreciated that, and I told them so. Whether or not I could have taken them wasn’t all that certain, but it was quite beside the point. I don’t like violence, especially when the reason for it is so fucking stupid, like looking at the wrong drunken incestuous partly metal, partly brainless jackass at the wrong time. I also don’t like that a big part of me really wanted to smash their fucking faces in! To help me calm down, a couple of the armadillos offered to walk with me to the nearest McDonald’s to get a bite to eat. It seemed like a good idea, and Ronald McDonald was unlikely to be there himself. If he was, we agreed we wouldn’t stay. Violence would almost certainly break out in that event.
When Ben Armadillo, Samantha Armadillo and I returned to the Plexiglass Onion, the SilverHawks were all but forgotten and the show had begun. We could hear Bill’s voice belting out a crowd favorite, Gobots From Hell, from outside. I could have gotten us to McDonald’s and back a lot quicker if I’d flown us, and we might not have missed the beginning of the show. But the walk did me a world of good.
I opened the door to let my friends in ahead of me, and I was nearly knocked over by someone coming out. ‘Oops, sorry,’ I said to the muscular man with the bastard sword on his back. I recognized him as He-Man. Well, I almost mistook him for Rick Devious, a local newscaster, but that was because he didn’t have his usual pageboy haircut. He’d apparently become tired of it. And I don’t blame him — I always thought it looked rather ridiculous. This, however, wasn’t much of an improvement.
He-Man glared at me with bloodshot eyes, and I could see that he had been drinking almost as heavily as the SilverHawks. ‘Sorry my ass!’ he squeaked. ‘I’ll bet you don’t like my haircut either! Get out of my way!’ With that, he shoved me aside and I skidded 50 feet across the parking lot, landing in front of Toys, Toys, Toys!,
a local store which sells stationery. And toys.
Ben and Samantha helped me to my feet. ‘Jesus Fuck!’ I exclaimed angrily, the adrenaline pumping through my limbs again. ‘This is not my day. Did that fuck-wit, He-Man leave?’
‘Yes,’ answered Samantha. ‘Let’s go inside.’
At the time, it seemed like a good idea. After all, that’s why we were there — to go inside and see the show. But as I opened the door, Bill finished singing Gobots From Hell, and started singing Dancing on the Ceiling by Lionel Richie!
The effect was as horrible as one would expect. Everyone in the club began screaming as their ears were assaulted by the noise, and the floor beneath us began to quake. The weasels and penguins in the room began bouncing off the walls screaming, ‘PING!’ with each bounce, and soon it sounded like some sort of macabre pinball machine. My skull felt like it was being sucked down my neck, and the room started spinning. Or maybe I was spinning. In any event, the punks and armadillos and the staff at the Plexiglass Onion were all spinning. They spun faster and faster, and most became violently ill. The pain and the dizziness and the pinball noises showed no signs of letting up until one of the armadillos accidentally plowed into John Truvalue’s drum set. Like a bowling ball thrown for a perfect strike, the armadillo sent the drums flying into the air, knocking every band-member on his ass, and it was finally over.
Cat came in from back stage, and helped the members of Zero Power and the hapless armadillo up. He looked a bit woozy himself, but having been in another room, I guess he didn’t get the full brunt of the song. ‘Are you guys okay?’ he asked them, concerned as everyone else was.
‘Yeah,’ answered Bill. ‘I don’t know what came over me!’
The show would have to be rescheduled, announced the new owner of the club (a handsome gentleman with a Russian surname, and no Russian accent, who carried a katana) as the equipment had been damaged. Most everyone in the place was still feeling too sick to stick around for a show anyway, so there wasn’t much complaint.
The makeup show was scheduled for the following week. Again, because I had nothing better to do, I arrived several hours early. Sitting at a stage-side table, I occupied my time by smashing Bon Jovi tapes with a hammer, and I noticed with satisfaction that Squasha Semprini noticed my activity with satisfaction. Squasha and I weren’t actually acquainted then but I’d seen her play with Jailbait Babywashers and Social Rectangle, and I’ve always admired her from afar. I considered introducing myself, offering her a hammer and inviting her to help me in my endeavor, but she looked pretty weary and battered (she was wearing a number of Speed Buggy® Band-Aids™), and I didn’t want to disturb her. Sad, too. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how she’d react to some strange giant Hippie hugging the stuffing out of her, so I left her to her own devices. Soon the new bartender, a friendly chap with a mustache the size of a small sheepdog or a very large tribble, brought her a cup of tea. She looked somewhat comforted, and that was good. Soon they were in deep conversation about the workings of the solar system or something.
My attention was drawn away from Squasha by the conversation I overheard from a table nearby. It was a typical ‘meat is murder’ argument being conducted by a coyote and a sheep.
‘I can’t believe you ordered that!’
‘Oh, come on, we’ve been through this before. I like meat. If you don’t want to see me eat my lamb-chop, take yer broccoli casserole (with cheese!) to another fucking table!’
‘One of God’s creatures died so that you could eat that lamb-chop!’
‘Boo-hoo! I have to live, don’t I?’
‘You can live on vegetables, y’know.’
‘Yeah, and I can be undernourished and anemic, like you. We need meat.’
‘Not me.’
‘Aren’t you at least a little bit tempted to eat meat every once in awhile?’
‘Well…’
‘Oh come on… here, try one bite.’
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help glancing over to see if the offer would be taken. Sure enough, the coyote took a bite of the morsel. He seemed to enjoy it, despite his protests to the contrary. The sheep looked as skeptical as I felt.
He-Man came in a bit later sporting a sort of Princess Leia meets Blondie Bumstead coiffure. The newscaster look hadn’t worked for him apparently, but I failed to see why he’d think this was an improvement either. He hadn’t been drinking yet, as far as I could tell, but I didn’t want a repeat of the previous week. So I ignored him, went back to smashing Bon Jovi tapes (I still had a few crates to go) and hoped he would go away.
I had been smashing the tapes, and watching the wide-screen television (there was some story on the news about a missing rabbit) for quite some time and all seemed well, but then a really sick thing happened. Out of the PA system came a rancid noise. It was I Saw Him Standing There, rendered horrible by teen super-sensation Tiffany!
Several things started to happen at once.
The penguins spilled their Matilda Bay wine coolers and I grabbed my head to stop it from exploding. Screaming, ‘IN OMNEM TERRAM EXIVIT SONUS EORUM, ET IN FINES ORBIS TERRAE VERBA EORUM, HODIE ADVEHO TUBRI COITUS!’ (Which translates roughly as ‘THE CORDS OF THE GRAVE COILED AROUND ME, THE SNARES OF DEATH CONFRONTED ME, NOW PASS THE FUCKING YAMS!’ Don’t ask me where I learned that bit of Latin)
I jumped onto the stage and started shuffling around on my buttocks as every coffee nip in my pockets caught fire. Squasha swooned and fainted, disappearing in a puff of lavender smoke (with a little orange mixed in) before she hit the floor.
Sabrina, the club’s sexy new entertainment coordinator, cut the tape out and offered a sincere apology, but the damage had already been done and everyone (yet again) was too ill to stick around for a show.
About a month later, I actually got to meet Squasha. ‘It’s amazing what people will go through for a coffee nip,’ she said.
We were in a particularly long line in Mosko’s, waiting for our chance to purchase a nip. I turned to face her, and I was very happy to note that the events at the Plexiglass Onion hadn’t done any permanent damage to her. As I said, I’ve seen her perform and I’ve always admired her from afar, but this was the first time I’d ever gotten the chance to admire her from anear. (Hey, if ‘afar’ is a word, I think ‘anear’ should be, too.)
She was gorgeous.
No, ‘gorgeous’ wasn’t right. She didn’t look like a Vogue model or any such horror as that.
She was cute.
No … that wasn’t quite right either. She didn’t look like a Care Bear or a Smurf or any such horror as that.
She looked GROOVY. She was wearing a black leather jacket (with quite a number of pockets), white ruffled shirt and a black mini-skirt. Her face was open and bright, with a cute little nose, big doe-eyes and her bleached white hair surrounded her delicate features like a halo. I was in lust.
I smiled in agreement with her observation. She was obviously a coffee nip addict. ‘You’re obviously a coffee nip addict,’ I said.
She smiled in return. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m Animal,’ I said, extending my hand in greeting, ‘groovy to meet you.’
‘I’m Squasha Semprini.’
‘Formerly of Social Rectangle. I know, I’ve seen you perform. I’m a fan. I was sorry to see you guys split up. Any plans to start another band?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘but I auditioned for Wet Wax Factory, and I’ll be doing my first show with them soon.’
‘Excellent!’
We made small talk while we waited in line and about an hour later we left with about 5,000 coffee nips between us.
We continued talking as we headed for the Exit/Exit. I usually don’t like to go there because the management doesn’t allow slam dancing, and they sometimes hired idiot high school jocks to enforce the rule (not t
hat they were actually able to stop anyone from slamming), but Iron Twinkie was playing that night.
Squasha looks no younger than 18, but no older than 17, so the orangutan at the door carded her. She cooperatively handed the door-ape her driver’s license. This did nothing to clear up the confusion so he let her in to save trouble.
Inside, a herd of buffalos sat at the bar ordering martinis by the bucket, while He-Man strutted around showing off his new curly-perm (still not much of an improvement). Several possums danced the Wattusi while the opening band, Barefoot and Pregnant played.
Twinkie was great, and I was enjoying my conversation with Squasha. Aside from being very attractive (which is hardly a requirement for my friendship), she was intelligent (which is a requirement for my friendship) and had a great sense of humor (ditto). We also had quite a bit in common, from our taste in music (60’s, 70’s and 80’s counterculture stuff, as well as jazz, blues and big band stuff from any decade) and books (we’d both tackled the Wild Card anthology series recently, and I decided to take up the Destroyer novels on her recommendation), to our taste in Freedom, Liberty and Individuality. Everything was going well.
Then disaster struck. Just when Iron Twinkie was preparing to sing their hit song I’ve Got a Headache This Big, and a Dick to Match, the guitarist broke a string. When he replaced it the audience wished he hadn’t, because out of the speakers came an awful sound. It was Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name!
I awoke to find that the room had been turned upside down. At least I thought it had. I picked up my black top hat and put it on. That was when I realized I was on the ceiling, because that was when I fell off of it. If not for my ability to fly my headache would have been that much worse.
A couple of paramedics were loading some pigs onto stretchers, their hooves were very badly blistered. He-Man was nowhere to be seen.
I helped Squasha out of a huge hole in the floor and flew her home to her Panda-built University dorm room (she was not a student there, luckily, just a resident). She was in no condition to teleport. Heck, she was barely conscious enough to give me directions to her flat.
‘You’re in no condition to fly home Animal,’ she said after thanking me for getting her home safely, ‘why don’t you stay here tonight?’
With that she drew herself up to me and planted a kiss on my lips that nearly burned my socks off. Our tongues met and we started to undress each other slowly. Slowly, because we paused to kiss and caress every tantalizing bit of flesh revealed. Then we made mad, passionate love until dawn.
Okay, okay, so I lied. But that was a damn sight more interesting than what really happened.
We slept.
The next morning I found Squasha in the kitchen (actually a converted dorm room adjoining the one she slept in, with a door cut in between them), cooking breakfast.
‘Good morning, Animal,’ greeted Squasha. ‘How’d you sleep?’
‘Good morning yerself,’ I greeted in return. ‘I slept well thank you. You have what is arguably the most comfortable sofa on the planet.’
‘I’m glad you liked it. You hungry?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, because I was. ‘What’s cookin’?’
‘Kroger pizza.’
‘Pepperoni?’
‘Sausage.’
‘Good. I hate pepperoni.’
She threw sausage at me.
Actually, I love pepperoni. I think I told her that so that she’d throw sausage at me. I’m silly that way.
‘So, just what happened at the Exit/Exit last night?’ I asked between bites. ‘I think I sort of passed out.’
She winced and then shuddered. ‘Oh, it was horrible… people eating their shoes, water-buffalos bellowing in rage and oh-! Three sows, who should have been sleeping in front of Sam Poopie’s Record store… if only they had stayed there! They barged in and began tap dancing. That wouldn’t have been so bad in itself, but… did you see their hooves?’
I nodded solemnly.
‘The people who weren’t eating their shoes,’ she continued, ‘were banging their heads on the walls. I barely noticed you lying down on the ceiling for a nap, before I climbed under the table and tried to claw my way out through the floor.’
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