Chapter 6
| The Story | The Authors |
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| "Whoa-ho! How's about THAT for a tough act to follow, folks?" shouted the emcee into the microphone, trying to make his voice heard above the boisterous din of screaming fans. "Well, if you thought that that was an act to die for, you're gonna love what's coming up next. That's right! It's the star of our show! The man you've heard so much about in the newspapers and on television! He was last seen doing his thing on Jerry Springer and will be headlining next week at the Jesse Helms Center for the Performing Arts! Put your hands together, open your lungs, and give a warm, rockin' welcome to Ronnie Rectum and his singing Enema!" | |
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It was a joke, of course, contractual stipulations forbid the Emcee from stating the performer's real name, but just about everyone there knew it anyway. It had hardly been a secret,after all. The vibes just hadn't been right and names are sacred keys to the yin/yang harmony of body and spirit. Screw up with the name of something and it's like fucked, you know, man. The contract also stipulated a plastic wading pool of lime jello, three bottles of Glenlivet, and a twenty gallon fish tank filled with only green M&M's. The crowd laughed approvingly at the Emcee's humor and each moved a little further forward in their seats to get just that much closer to the stage. The orchestra vamped a bit with theintro to "It's Not Unusual", flashpots bursting behind them, while the laser light show made splendid psychedelic patterns on the ceiling. And then they hit the stage. | |
| Literally. The wires that were supposed to gently lower them onto the stage in a glorious deus ex machina moment unexpectedly snapped. Bodies and instruments rained on the parquet floors as the audience screamed in glee, thinking it all part of the act. Bone and sinew, metal and wood, cracked and snapped as it slammed sickly to earth. "Close the curtains, dammit!" Yelled the promoter, "Close the curtains!" Behind the red crushed velvet, the crowd whooped and hollered for more. Meanwhile, the roadies and paramedics roamed the twisted alleys of flesh, slick with blood, searching to find signs of life amidst the rubble. | |
| The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band! Back together! After all these years! Mr. Tickles felt tears of nostalgia welling in his eyes as lead singer Bob Markley frŸgged across the stage in mod-a-go-go boots, silken pantaloons and a fringed jacket of real leopardskin, hamming it up on the opening bars of "Suppose They Give a War and No One Comes?" while behind him, brothers Shaun and Danny Harris plunked and raved on, respectively, an electrified koto and a white Vox Phantom. Mr. Tickes couldn't restrain himself, the dwarf ran across the room and hugged Tommy, weeping into the immobile lad's chest (causing several channels to crackle out of reception) before delivering young Tommy a savage retaliatory blow to the solar plexus and racing as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him back to the monitors. It was too good to be true! The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band! He hadn't seen them since the Whiskey, late '67, opening up for the Mothers of Invention. Gol-lee... | |
| Michael Lloyd, the unacknowleged member of the group stepped up to the mic, "You all expecting The Doors?" Two thousand massed voices yelled back "NO!" so loudly that bits of plaster rained down from the roof of the ampitheater. "Good 'cuz we aint them." And again the crowd roared. "This is a little ditty we wrote back in 1968 and it's called "Our Drummer Always Plays In the Nude" | |
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"Tommy you worthless piece of shit, get that slide show working! NOW!fumed Mr Tickles following the demand with an expertly flung PDR Tommy worked his battered carcass off the floor to move over to the psychedelic slide show projector. He'd been happily reenacting his favorite scenes from Chris Farley movies in his head. Onstage the band was pulsing its way through an extended jam of "Help, I'm A Rock" always a showstopper. Mr Tickles was beside himself with joy. |
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