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I've been looking for a theme to be too good to pass up instead of finishing other work, and this is  Hit me, baby!
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Jul 11, 2023 18:33
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| # ¿ Sep 10, 2024 21:39 |
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[FINANCIAL THRILLER x COSMIC HORROR] (from a spin) Mind the GAAP 1946 words The reward for good work is more good work. I repeat this truism to my team every time I hand out a crappy assignment nobody wants. I should have said no to Carrie Wagner. I knew it deep inside but in the moment, I fell victim to my own hero complex just as I’m sure she knew I would. It’s a peach of an assignment, Riley. Nelson is out on sudden leave and all you need to do is wrap up his audit - cross the Ts and dot the Is. Plymouth Pharmaceuticals is not only a huge client, but their CEO plays golf with all the senior partners. It’ll be a feather in your cap, future Full Partner. gently caress Wagner. You don’t need your team, keep them on standby. Easy peasy, lemon squeezey. Nelson was almost done before he collapsed, poor bastard. Good guy, but not solid like you. His team was reassigned last week, and I’m almost embarrassed to ask you to do this but we need someone we can depend on. gently caress her to hell. I walked into Plymouth’s HQ on Monday. They didn’t know what to do with me, and that took the morning to straighten out. Carrie never bothered to tell them that Nelson was out. I had heard the building used to be owned by a company that made religious icon candles and lottery number books. Whether true or not, the place had an odd smell, and even odder vibe. The structure itself was circa 1920s and cubicle farms with walls and desks that looked straight out of the 70s were crammed into it like a hundred pounds of bricks crammed into a ten gallon bucket. You’d think with all the money they made, Plymouth might spruce it up, but nope. Even for an oil company Plymouth was infamously cheap. I got summarily dumped into a conference room just slightly larger than a bathroom stall. The whiteboard was an incomprehensible mess of smeared erasures, the occasional word poked through like petroglyphs. Pale faces from the nearby cubes stared with slack expressions, until I met their gaze, then they would quickly go back to — whatever it was they were doing. Probably playing minesweeper. After another hour of doomscrolling with my phone the head of Plymouth’s compliance team brought in a box with Nelson’s stuff. Laptop, notes, a stress ball, some USBs, and a dirty coffee cup so faded and used, I couldn’t even say what was once on it. The woman was short, had a clammy handshake and an equally clammy looking complexion. For some reason I was relieved she didn’t hang around to chat. It seemed like her clamminess might be contagious. I dug through Nelson’s work. Legal pads were in good order with asset-consulting.com JULY neatly written at the top. His handwriting grew more rushed and spidery as his notes went on. At the end of the most recent pad, I found pages of the same thing written over and over, “THE CENTER THE POINTS THE END” followed by a page with scratchy scribbles that looked like it was a good candidate for psychotherapy. No wonder the guy was out - it looked like he had a stroke. I turned on the laptop and stared at the login screen. A search through his things didn’t turn up any passwords. I plugged his USBs into my laptop, but they were all encrypted for his machine. gently caress. In the company portal, I put in a request for access to his machine, and went through the papers again. They were thorough and referenced the Plymouth annual report - helpfully included in the box, as well as a bundle of printouts from their financial system. I spent the better part of the afternoon catching up and comparing his annotations to the documents. One particular note read, “AFRP page 35 - WHY?? can’t be right. look into.” Digging into the annual financial report, I flipped through - page 33, 34, 38. What the hell? Someone had removed pages 35, 36, and 37 - cut them out with a razor or box cutter. This was under the section for ‘Exploration and Investments.’ I dug through the financials and found the source data. Nothing jumped at me. They had been spending a huge percentage of their capital on exploration drilling in Mexico, the US, Haiti, and off the west coast of South America. They must have reason to think there were large undiscovered oil fields there, but they would go broke if any of those didn’t pay off. Bold, but reckless. I.T. still hadn’t gotten back to me, so I took a bio break. I washed my hands and stared into the mirror wondering what had happened to Nelson. I never did get the details, but he obviously snapped or something. The tepid water went cold and oily. I looked down and I was rubbing my hands under a greasy black sludge that smelled like fish and pig farms. “Ugh, poo poo! What the hell is this?” I grabbed a large slab of paper towels off the counter. The black poo poo just smeared and made me think of when the sewer backed up into my basement. Maybe kitchenette water would be clean. Did they have one? They must. I pushed out the door and nearly ran headlong into a tall, gaunt man in an outdated suit. “Sorry,” I said. “Is there someone in building maintenance we can call? The faucets are spewing this black cra--” I held up my hands, which were wet with water, but otherwise clean. “Huh,” I said and shook my head. “Not enough coffee I guess.” The man peered at me like I may be some new species of bug. He glanced at my visitor badge then suddenly broke into a grin. “Ah, you’re Nelson’s replacement,” he said. “Philip. Howards. I’m Plymouth’s CFO.” He extended a hand. I shook it and it was clammy and limp. I felt like I was shaking a dead carp. He peered at me again and said, “Good luck.” before slinking into the men’s room. “The gently caress? Now I’m losing it.” I muttered and returned to my ‘office.’ On the way, I spotted another copy of the annual financial report sitting on a file cabinet. Who had file cabinets anymore? I grabbed the book, feeling like a kid stealing candy. There was still no word on the laptop, so I checked out page 35 of the annual report. It was a map and descriptions of the most recent oil exploration sites the company was investigating. The biggest was smack dab in the middle of the Yucatan. Could they do that? I would have thought that region was protected. There were five other sites - in the Appalachians, near Lubbock, in Haiti, off the coast of Acapulco, and one on a tiny island named Isla del Coco. I compared the page to the vandalized copy Nelson had. It was definitely the same year. Why had he cut the pages out? There was a pattern on page 33 - like an impression, as if someone had written and drawn on page 35. I didn’t have a pencil, but the whiteboard eraser for the tiny whiteboard was loaded with dry erase dust. I gingerly shaded Nelson’s page 33, revealing strange doodling and one large geometric diagram. I stared. It was a pentagram. It lined up perfectly with the exploration map - the Yucatan in the middle and the other locations at the points of the star with a big circle around it all. I giggled. Someone was loving with him. Were they loving with me? I looked at the notepads, staring at the top line. Why would he write the website at the top? Wait a sec— the real website didn’t have a dash in it. I grabbed his laptop and typed ‘asset-consulting.comJULY.’ I was rewarded with access. Maybe finally I could get some answers. There were only two files on the desktop - a document and a spreadsheet, both named ‘THE END.’ I opened the document and skimmed it. It seemed Nelson uncovered that Plymouth hired thousands of unskilled workers, spent millions in digging and construction equipment, and sent it all to these exploration sites. A large percent of employees too. This wasn’t just risky, this was madness. And highly illegal. I opened the spreadsheet file, and got a warning that the file may be corrupt, but it opened anyway. I paged through the numbers. They didn’t seem to make any sense. I scrolled past repeating patterns, columns wavered back and forth. My eyes watered. The laptop screen stuttered. Lines of numbers danced, and then multiplied, split off, then scattered off the edges. Strange symbols overlayed the figures and I tried to touch them, but they fled like roaches in the light. I scrolled, scrolled, scrolled scrolled until the center the points the end the center the points the end THE CENTER THE POINTS — My eyes began to bleed. THE END THE END THE END
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Jul 17, 2023 01:29
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E:  Kuiperdolin I'll be a judge. Doctor Zero fucked around with this message at 19:08 on Jul 18, 2023 |
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Jul 18, 2023 19:05
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I AM NOT A NUMBER ... but I want one please.
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Jul 25, 2023 14:40
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 Week 572 - Family Sagas ... Sagae? ... Saga's? ... STORIES - Detailed Crits inbound Fat Jesus - The importance of Women Rating: B Nice introspective piece but resolves abruptly. Notes: - The dialect approach is good. Gave me a sense of the MC’s specific voice. Although it was confusing at first, it didn’t take me long to get into the cadence. Just a note here - some people hate reading dialects. - I was suprised halfway through to find that “Pa” was the “Grandpa” and not the dad. Maybe it’s a dialect thing, but it could be made clear earlier. Somehow. - There are a few places you declare and not show, like “Her disappointment hurt.” I mean, yeah I would think so unless I have reason to think the MC doesn’t give a poo poo. You could convey it a bit better, or make it more of a commentary since we’re in the MC’s closest POV (in their head). Think about how you think. Would you think “My mother is disappointed and it hurts?” No, you’d think “Ouch. That stung.” Or “There she goes. Again.” Or whatever. - The MC seems to be unfamiliar with dementia. Maybe it’s because I had to deal with it myself IRL, but I knew what it was immediately. Neither good nor bad - just commenting. - While interesting on its own, punch ip the conflict. What even is the conflict? How can you raise the stakes as the story goes along? - Overall: it was nicely written, and conveyed the sense of a long line of ‘cowboys’ needing to be settled down. I actually liked the dialect. However, I feel the story wraps up very abruptly. “And then I went home and got married. The end.” I would like to see more of the process of how the MC’s dad and granddad makes them come around. Perhaps you could just hint at the change at the end instead. e.g. “Next time I visit, I’d like to have found that little woman who can tame my wild horses.” (Yes, that was intentionally corny and dumb. Don’t use that.) PS: Some people may object to a “it takes a woman to fix a man” themes. Personally IDC. Just keep in mind. -- ActingPower - Postcognition Rating: B+ Good emotions, moody. It has great bones. The writing is good - but needs to be tightened up and I would like a bigger POW at the end. Great job. Keep up the great job. Notes: - First line is interesting mostly because it leaves me wondering if the box or the closet is what the MC isn’t allowed in.  Honestly, that’s a fine opening line, just make it clear.- I’m getting a bit of White Room syndrome. What’s the bedroom look like? Is it outdated? Does the closet smell like mothballs? Don’t go overboard, just little things will paint the picture. - You could use descriptions more economically. E.g. “I recognized the upper half of his ring from old photos of him.” Could be “It was the same ring he wore in the photos I’d seen.” Also remove directions and actions that don’t matter. e.g. “I put a hand on the hat and pulled it to my side of the bed.” Could just be “I pulled the hat out of her reach.” Of course May would use her hand, and which side of the bed she’s on doesn’t seem to matter. Your writing is good but gets hidden behind details that don’t matter and what I think might be the author’s timidity. I think you see the scenes in your head when you write and ten narrate that, but you don’t have to write every little motion from that. Trust the reader to fill in those details mentally. Note: Even screenwriters hardly write much stage direction unless it’s really important. - Did the MC have a question in mind? Why did her dad just start talking about her mom in the first visit? - Capitalized Death? Unless Death will be a character in the story somehow, use lowercase. - How do you paw at your eyes with the back of your hand? - Overall: Nice, but with how emotional it was, I expected a bigger POW at the end. Like REALLY big. Maybe have May deny it to herself, but then blurt it out at her grandma. Also the “I wanted to be there for you.” and the implication he drove off the bridge are slightly contradictory. Maybe “I wish I had been there for you.” Or something. Perhaps more of a regretful note which could have a couple of different interpretations. Then the MC’s conflict is if her struggle (I’m assuming depression?) is what her dad suffered too. -- beep-beep car is go - Family Meeting Rating: C- Interesting slice of Space Opera that rambles too much for me. All the interesting bits are in the last third of the story. It’s okay to hint at a larger work, but this story still needs to have a conflict that is at least somewhat resolved so it stands on its own. Tighten up the prose. AFAIK this is your first Thunderdome entry. Good job! There’s good stuff here. Please keep writing. The grade reflects totally fixable stuff. Notes: - I am confused right off. You mention a dome above, but then the planet below Where are they? Where is everything in relation to each other? - The second paragraph is 1/10th your allotted word count to explain the dress. Will it matter? If not, it’s already clear it’s sci-fi (different planet) so just let the reader do with it what they will. - Are the guards important? Why are they a welcome sight? See previous comment. (BTW, I’m not suggesting to cut them, but “Two guards in bulky power armor bowed and stepped out of the way, their faces obscured by the mirrored visors.” Or something like that would suffice. Since you only have 1k words, rely on adjectives to convey details. - Why does it matter that Isla is breathing through her nose? - ‘Empress Isla took a breath and held it. She looked down at Purslane. “Are you ready, sunshine?” Purslane looked up at her mother, her face serious. “Will it be scary?”’ - BAM - I suggest that’s your opening scene right there (slightly re-written). Instant grab. - Overall, it takes too long to get going, and then it ends. I’m imagining you had something more in mind, but realized that 1k words would not contain it. I did that last week. Don’t be me. Anyway, it’s an interesting slice of space opera. I like the Grandmothers - it might be cool if they were all frozen days before they would have died, so waking one was a calculated risk, but it’s your story. Overall, in flash fiction you need to be very economical, but still set the tone, the characters, the conflict, AND hook the reader within a paragraph or two. Three at MOST. Ruthlessly cut anything that doesn’t do that. You can always come back to important setting stuff later in the story with a little rearranging, -- Chairchucker - Firstborn Skater Rating: B+ YES. I want to read more about the overthrow of capitalism with a skateboard. This is a great read. Love the tone. Notes: - Doesn’t need a section break in the beginning. Makes it seem like a lot of time has elapsed (unless it has). Also the mom tuts twice in a short period of time. EDIT: Oh, time has passed. I think you can move the flashback up to the beginning section. Oh, and does the jacket read minds? How did it know she was thinking about her brother and mother? I wanted to see more of the jacket. Hopefully there will be in a future work. - At age seven she would swim in the jacket, which is a detail I’d expect. In the second scene, has she had it the whole time? How much time? If it fits her now, that’s like 8-10 years. Is it still big on her? - ‘She told us that our firstborn son would, wearing that super gnarly jacket, recover the Skateboard of Destiny and use it to destroy capitalism.’ LOLOL Fantastic (although I think I see it coming). - Why would the parents ignore the prophecy about the second son? Maybe we’ll find out. - The quick ending works well here. You could end with a “But that’s a story for another time…” though. -Overall, great tone, and funny. I love how matter of fact everyone is about all the magical realism. ESPECIALLY the bits where they look ‘sick’ in the jacket. I want to read further adventures! -- Bad Seafood - Birthright Rating: B A clever bit of era jumping that might improve with tighter connections between eras. Notes: - ‘It was empty now, vacant, as ever it was, full of cells without people who couldn’t be princes of countries the maps showed never existed.’ I’ve read this about 5 times and I can’t figure out how to parse it. It was empty now as it ever was, then nobody has been held in it? I the double (triple?) negative is tripping me here. - ‘His mouth suppressed a smile.’ Only his mouth? Could just be ‘He surpassed a smile, trying to keep his mouth from showing it.’ Or something. Don’t do that - it’s clunky, but I hope you get what I mean. Try not to have body parts do things on their own, or better yet, just eliminate them since it’s probably obvious that he’s suppressing a smile in his mouth. Unless this is a much different story. - ‘On the far shore were others, human in shape. He turned to face his men. “Get the others,” he commanded.’ I assume this is part of Savru’s POV and not it’s own thing. If so, the blank line breaks the pattern. - Stephen’s POV is okay with multiple paragraphs since it’s the end piece. - This was a tough piece to judge for both of us, since you are playing with story structure. We read this over again the most times of them all, and had to work out if that was a good thing or not. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, since it sticks in your mind, which you definitely want. - Overall: I liked this. Took me until paragraph 3 to get what was going on, but that’s not a bad thing - I love stories that you have to suss out. The said, I think you need to refine the structure a little (this is all opinion here - you write your story). EDIT: somehow I lost the point in copying to the forums: the connections between each era don’t seem to be consistent. I couldn’t find the one from the first era presented and the second. And then something like ‘nose pinching’ is mentioned in the beginning of one era and the end of the next, which is too long IMO. I would put them closer to the end of the previous era and the beginning of the next to make those connections stronger. I did like how the last era looped back to the first though. Fair warning - I know from direct experience with some of my own writing that some readers don’t like to have to puzzle out the story, so just keep that in mind. But keep writing what you love. -- Greenwing - Duty Visit Rating: A Man, this makes me really not want to get old. Well written, distinct characters, yet similar enough to be related. I loved how Garnet is set up to break the mold and … NOPE! Notes: - second paragraph - “people were staring” - breaking tense? - Nicely done! Really terrible characters - er, not your writing of them, they are horrible human beings and I rather dislike them. Again, not your writing. - Overall: All in all really well done. Since it’s so solid, it’s kinda tough making suggestions, but here goes. Except for a couple of spots that another proofreading will catch (if you aren’t sick of your own work, you haven’t read it enough. Also try running it through a Text to Speech program - that really helps me) the prose was all solid. Thinking back, structurally it’s a little odd that the first two segments are from Cathy’s POV, and only the last is different. It’s not something that screams at me, but I wonder if you did the middle section in Thea’s POV it might be cool. Meh. Up to you. Also try to throw names in a little more often. I got tripped up in Thea’s section because I wasn’t sure who ‘she’ was referring to, and I had to stop reading and figure it out. Again, an easy fix. -- Thranguy - Midway Rating: C A cool generation ship idea that’s actually original (at least to me). There are elements though that didn’t fit together (or at least I didn’t get them), and story was flat (dramatically). Maybe it was supposed to be. Rising tension / dread / excitement or what have you would be great. This deserves to be looked at again and spiffed up. Notes: - It might work better if you swap the first and second paragraphs. Not that the first line is bad, just the second I feel is more interest-grabbing. - ‘farther out than anyone had been apart from all the other ships’ (paraphrased) Seems an odd way to say this Are they the furthest out or not? That’s a state that only one ship can have. - I got lost with who is whose mother for a while, and I never did figure out who Alice was or why she mattered. - ooh spooky gateways and tooting spaceships. Cool. (Seriously) - The paragraph that begins, ‘The universe … is a graveyard.’ Is really cool, but also hard to parse. I get most of it, but does it say that Mars once had native life that progressed technologically? How does the Scourge fit in? Did they open the gates and scourge Mars? It seems to say both they did and they didn’t. - Bright as a nearby star is still not very bright, and would take a while to notice. Maybe a nova? That would get noticed. - I get that they are tired and hopeless, but I don’t exactly understand why the generations are dwindling. I think maybe that because they aren’t bothering to produce more children? - is ‘We have signal’ a typo or an All your Base joke? (I would love it if it’s a joke, but the line is ‘We get signal.’) - I like the plans, but I didn’t get if Plan A was official and the rest ad-hoc determined on the East Wind, or if the ‘official’ plan always had contingencies. That matters to me, because if it’s the latter, it indicates more of the sense of the crew giving up on the dream. Also LOL at plan C. I like how it implies we (humans) were a plan C. - Overall: Great concept, but I feel it needs to be longer. Or shorter if you want to keep it flash. I think you could do some really great building of tension, dread, and hopelessness in a longer work. Seriously, this feels like a fresh take on an old trope, and I’d like to see this honed to a razor’s edge. Did you rush this? No shame if so. Just curious if it was rushed or maybe you need more time to noodle on the concept. I really wanted to get deep into this story. -- fini -- I'm open to discussing my thoughts more in the Lounge, Discord, or PMs. Doctor Zero fucked around with this message at 23:17 on Jul 25, 2023 |
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Jul 25, 2023 14:49
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| # ¿ Sep 10, 2024 21:39 |
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WEEK 339: DIE HARD WEEK Your story must: Be on Christmas Your randomly generated Netflix category: And You Watched It Day And Night And your Extreme Flash: A battle of the bands goes terribly, terribly wrong Eartha and the Kitts 5888 Words Gunfire ripped out and the cacophony of instruments being tuned stopped, one high pitched E from an electric guitar wavered on into the stunned silence. Onstage, the two bands that had been setting up for the first round of the 1986 Annual Christmas Band Battle froze like Polaroids. Eartha glanced around checking if anyone had been hit. Their opponent band, a bunch of preppies from Uptown High had all dropped to the stage and had their hands over their heads. “NOBODY DO ANYTHING FUNNY!” A booming German accent voice rang out, amplified by the incredible acoustics of the Majestic Theatre. In the middle of the main floor seats, the five members of Shredd stood with automatic rifles, swinging them around in wide arcs, daring anyone to move. Behind her, two stagehands produced similar weapons training them on each band. Who she assumed was the lead singer of Shredd, took a step away from the other band members, each one dressed in silver and black leather, their faces painted like cats, dogs, or with geometric shapes. Behind her Siouxshe whispered, “I thought those Kiss wannabes looked sketchy.” Dillon, her boyfriend, and the band’s bassist snorted, making his ‘hawk snippy on his head. Eartha, lead vocalist and guitarist of her band, Eartha and the Kitts, shook her dropping hair out of her eyes with a flick of her head. Her spiked earrings and chains on her leather jacket jingled merrily. Leaning into the mic, she cleared her throat and said, “Uh, I think you’re taking ‘Battle of the Bands’ a little bit too literally there, Gene.” ‘Gene’ pulled off his hair - a black wig, teased up. Underneath, he sported a buzzcut. He waved his weapon at her and shouted, “I said shut up, Batgirl!” Eartha looked down at her Catwoman t-shirt and the real Eartha Kitt looked back, grinning behind her black mask. She wished he were closer so she could plant a combat boot into his soft spot. “Actually, you said ‘don’t do anything funny,’” Eartha said into the mic again. Nobody made even a chuckle except Siouxshe and Dillon who both snickered. She looked back and saw Scott wasn’t behind the drum machine. With a few leaps, he closed the distance to the stage and clambered up the front while his bandmates covered him. Gene marched up to her, getting into her face. He was at least a foot taller than her, so he had to stoop a little which made the move much less intimidating. Still, she felt his stale breath on her pierced and sheened brow, already sweating from the stage lights. “Are you going to give me trouble, little girl.” He made the last word sound like a playground insult. His voice carried via her mic into the speakers. Eartha met his gaze steady, but her legs began to tremble, making her bullet belt and plaid skirt festooned with safety pins rattle audibly. She swallowed. This close, she had second thoughts about where to place a combat boot. Eartha just shook her head but kept a scowl on her face. Gene stared her down a few seconds then grabbed the mic. He looked out at the scattering of friends and family sitting dumbfounded in their seats. “Everyone, get up!” When nobody moved, he roared, “GET THE gently caress UP!” The twenty or so people leapt up as if they found the joy-buzzers in their seats. Gene nodded to the other four Shredds who herded the audience into one group in the middle of the main floor seats and covered them. Eartha looked and found her dad. She met his gaze as he shooed her little sister ahead of him. She gave him a slow shake of her head - Don’t you dare. Her father, an ex-firefighter, hesitated then nodded. She knew him well. Eartha jumped when Gene thrust the mic back at her. “Play,” he said. “What?” “PLAY!” She looked back at Siouxshe and Dillon, shrugged and mouthed a song title, You’re Just a Xerox. She glanced again at the lonely drum machine. Where the gently caress was Scott? # Three minutes previously, Scott Lundgren was in the control booth overlooking the theater, with The Sound Guy - a scruffy old guy in cut offs and a Hawaiian shirt. He always wore a Detroit Lions baseball hat on backwards. Scott figured he had a real name, but everyone just called him “The Sound Guy.” The booth was small and crammed with electronics, it would only fit a few people, but it had a great view of the theater and the stage, of course. He watched Eartha warming up and sighed. “Hey kid,” the Sound Guy said. “Unlock that cabinet for me.” The Sound Guy tossed a key run loaded with keys up in the air. Scott tried to grab them, missed, and ended up batting them against the observation window with a loud bang. They fell behind the control panel. “Jesus kid, don’t break the window.” The Sound Guy sighed. Scott gaped. “Sorry,” he muttered and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Just go get ‘em. Go around behind the cabinets there. You’ll have to squeeze between the console and the window, but there should be room for someone as skinny as you.” Scott frowned at that comment but was pleased that he was thin enough to squeeze behind the equipment. A rapid series of bangs startled him, and he hit his head on the edge of a cabinet. He winced but didn’t have room to hold his head. He wondered who was setting off fireworks. Someone shouted down below. He heard the door open and someone with an accent yelled, “DON’T MOVE.” Someone was playing tricks, but The Sound Guy said, “Who the hell are you?” Peeking through spaces in the racks of electronics, Scott saw two men enter the small booth. One carried a pistol and the other a shotgun. They wore jeans and faded band t-shirts. He saw them earlier rolling cases of equipment in, and figured they were sound guys. Were they robbing the place? The one with the shotgun cocked it and pointed it at The Sound Guy. Scott held his breath. “Get in the closet.” Raising his hands in the air and standing up, The Sound Guy silently complied. He looked Scott’s way briefly and mouthed quiet and then entered the closet and sat on a bunch of equipment boxes. Shotgun closed the door. He looked at the key lock. He opened the door and held out a hand. “Keys.” Scott heard The Sounds Guy say, “I ain’t got em.” “KEYS!” Shotgun shook his hand. “Honestly, I ain’t got em, look.” sound guy said. Scott figured he must be turning out his pockets. “But someone should have’ em.” This, he said louder. Message received. “Uh, I think you’re taking ‘Battle of the Bands’ a little bit too literally there, Gene.” Eartha’s voice came over the booth monitors, clear as day. Shotgun grunted, slammed the door then took a folding chair and propped it under the door handle. He and Pistol went to the controls and leaned on them, watching whatever was happening on stage. Scott let himself slide down the wall. To him, it sounded like a belt sander. He was sure Pistol and Shotgun could hear his heart beating; it was so loud. But they were too engrossed in whatever was going on down there. Someone yelled something. ““Actually, you said ‘don’t do anything funny.’” Eartha’s voice again. Slowly, sliding himself along the wall behind the controls, he came to the corner and pressed the side of his face against the wall to see behind the console. There laying in decades of dust, papers, cobwebs and even an old, dry condom (used of course), was key ring. He wiggled his shoulders until he could work an arm around the corner and reached. He stretched. He strained. He was sure the goons would hear, but then another voice came across the monitors. A man’s voice, accented, rough. “Are you going to give me trouble, little girl.” Scott froze. Was that guy talking to Eartha? More urgently, he reached again. Harder. A little more. A little more. He got a fingertip on a key, but the contact pushed it out of reach again. Scot scrunched up his face and thought, Mothergodamnsonofashiteatingcrapfuck. The man said, “Everyone get up!” followed a second later by, “GET THE gently caress UP!” Scott forced more of his shoulder around the corner and tried again. He wondered if he had the strength to dislocate his own shoulder and if he did, would he scream? But then his finger dropped into the ring of the keys. He nearly yanked them back but stopped himself before they jingled. He took a bath and slowly, dragged them back through the accumulated detritus. The back of his hand hit the used condom and it came apart with a soft crunch, some of the pieces sticking to his hand. He shuddered. “What?” Eartha said. “Play!” The man shouted so loud; Scott heard it through the wall of the booth. The band started You’re Just a Xerox. It sounded strange without drums, but Dillon managed to fill in with impromptu rhythm guitar. He was really a good guitarist. The shithead. # Her mind raced while she played the guitar riff. She hit a dead note or two and swore at herself. Get it together Eartha. Turning around while playing, she looked at Dillon and nodded at the drum machine. Dillon shrugged. His leather was brand new, purchased just for the Christmas show. It was still stiff, and the entire jacket moved up and down in one piece when he moved. Siouxshe shook her head when Eartha looked at her. Their opponent band huddled on the stage floor, backs up against their synths, chins resting on knees. They looked away when her eyes met theirs. The two roadies, goons, whatever they were both held their weapons ready, but pointed downward, watching them and the other band like they might try something. Eartha and the Kitts might, but the poseurs in Letter to Nancy weren’t going anywhere. Who the gently caress even was Nancy? Xerox ended and Dillon immediately started into a cover of Kiss Me Deadly by Generation X. Nice. She turned back to the mic and sang, the small knot of audience, now paying attention. The greyhound's rocking out tonight To maximum rockabilly When two punks chose to risk the subway For a tube to Picadilly And the Zephrys stir fast gangs for glory Another dumb casualty Having fun In South West six When a hidden flick knife flicks Kiss me deadly tonight Then Dillon’s heavy guitar licks kicked in, and the volume went through the roof. She started and was a split second late on the second verse. She looked around and Gene was standing off stage-right waving at the booth and making up motions. The sound went up another ten decibels. The theater had amazing sound for something that was built sixty years ago, but it was making even her ears ring. What was that all about? Gene looked at her and winked with a grin. That couldn’t be a good thing. # Scott was stuck. He had the keys pulled to him, but he couldn’t get his shoulder back around the corner. He would have whined if he dared. Something popped in his shoulder, and he held his breath expecting a surge of pain, but nothing. It was just his shoulder joint. Eartha and the Kitts had moved on to one of their cover songs when he heard a walkie talkie squawk on. “Turn it up.” It was the man who had been shouting earlier. Scott heard Shotgun, or Pistol muttering and then the volume doubled. “More.” The music thundered and the walls rattled. He wondered if the old plaster would start coming down. “Nfff gefff owww hhhhhr.” The walkie talkie said with a crackle. “WHAT?” Pistol or Shotgun replied. “I said, ‘get out here!’ The man said, louder. Scott heard the chairs move and the door opened, the sound momentarily somehow even louder before the door closed. Knowing it could be his chance, and he didn’t want to live the rest of his life, however long that might be, stuck behind this console, Scott managed to wriggle out of the corner at the expense of leaving a long scrape down his arm from a rough edge. He frantically worked his way backwards, stopped, realized he forgot the keys, wriggled forward again, then grabbed them. There wasn’t enough room to shove them in a pocket, so he just backed out again. Once he was free of the hell of equipment cabinets, he reached for the folding chair, then stopped. He went to the control booth door, and carefully peeked through the window. Pistol - he assumed it was pistol since he couldn’t see a shotgun, stood with his back to the door, smoking. Scott went back to the closet and said through the edge of it as loudly as he dared, “Hey, they’re gone but outside. I’m going to open the door. Be quiet.” He waited, but either there was no answer it, or he couldn’t hear it over Generation X. Scott slipped the chair away and cracked the door open. Something furry hit him in the face and he recoiled, barely managing to not let the chair go. “Hey!” he spit and batted the furry thing away before backing away. The Sound Guy peeked through the crack of the door at him. “Oh sorry,” he said and dropped the duster. “I thought you might be them.” Scott spit out more fluff and hoped the thing had been cleaned recently. The dusty taste in his mouth said otherwise. “One of them is outside the door, so there’s nowhere to go.” Scott said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. He saw that his blue Member’s Only jacket sleeve had a big tear in from the console and he could see his own skin through it. His mom was going to kill him. “I don’t know what to do,” Scott said and then remembered Eartha. He set the chair aside and looked out the control booth’s window. Members of Kiss had mean looking rifles pointed at the knot of people gathered. Eartha and the band were wrapping up Kiss Me Deadly but were being watched too. A guy with shorthair and makeup looked to be giving orders. He pointed at his watch, then at the booth, then at the floor. Scott ducked back and went to the closet. “Something’s going on. There’re guys with guns out there. Like military ones.” Scott waved a hand at the window. The Sound Guy leaned back. “Hey man, I just work here. He crossed his arms. “We gotta do something!” Scott said. No,” The Sound Guy shook his head. “We don’t.” Scott sighed. “Fine. I have to get out there and do something, but the door’s covered and it’s a long way down to the floor. “You got those keys?” “Yeah.” Scott patted his jacket pocket. “On the other wall is an access hatch. It’s got a ladder that goes up to the roof, and down to the main floor.” He pointed at Scott’s pocket. “Key for it’s on there.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” “Put the chair back against the door when you leave. The Sound Guy closed the closet door. “Mother Fucker.” Scott said. He paused and pulled the door open again. “What now?” The Sound Guy said. “Give me your monitor,” Scott said yanking the black box off The Sound Guy’s belt and pulling the headset off by the wire. “Hey!” The Sound Guy’s Detroit Tigers hat flew off, and Scott closed the door again, making sure to wedge the chair back. # Elaine wailed on her guitar in the middle of Ronald Raygun Wants to Nuke the World - a ‘cover’ of Tears for Fears - Scott’s voice jumped in her ear. “Eartha!” Eartha jerked, her pick dragged across the strings, and she said, “Scott!” Gene and the Shredds looked at her, and she continued to scrape the strings, screaming. “Scott Free! I wanna be Scott Free, you dumb rear end cowboy!” Shaking his head and Gene looked away again. Eartha looked around. Dillon and Siouxshe were looking at her funny. She mouthed Scott at them and motioned at her ear with her shoulder. Siouxshe rolled her eyes. “I’ve got your monitor don’t say anything or they’ll hear you.” Scott’s voice said, tinny a small in her ear. “No, poo poo!” Eartha sang and followed up with a chant of ‘No poo poo!’ working it into the song. “Ha ha, very funny.” He said. “Look, I’m in the basement. I was trapped in the booth, but I got out and I could have gone to the roof or the basement, and I figured they’d have guys on the roof, so I went down here hoping to find a way out, but they have all the doors chained. They’ve been wheeling cartloads of equipment cases through here, but nobody’s come out again. Are you okay?” Eartha sang, “Ronald Raygun, wants to Nuke the world, WHAT DO YOU THINK?” “Okay!” Just let me figure something out.” “Ronald Raygun should have the cops called on him!” “I’m working on it! I’m going to see what they’re doing, don’t go anywhere.” Eartha finished the song out and said into the mic, “Oh yeah. That’s so funny. Hey, we were going to play Just loving Do Something next,” “Are you okay?” Dillon whispered behind her, and she hissed him off. “But instead, we’re going to do everyone’s favor-ite Christmas Song, Santa’s Drunk. Again. Ready? On four …” # The basement was quiet, other than the floor above thrumming with bass. Which means it wasn’t very quiet. But at least there weren’t any goons in sight. Scott was hidden behind an old defunct boiler, smelling of rust and damp concrete. This would make a great place to shoot a video if they lived through it. Across the way, the wardrobe and prop room was open, double metal doors swung ajar. He craned to see in, looking for movement. A couple feet away, a wardrobe cart stood, brightly colored costumes hung on a brass upside-down U shape. It was on wheels. He tiptoed awkwardly over and ducked behind it. He waited. Nothing. Tiptoeing sucked, why do people say that he had almost lost his balance twice. Using the cart as mile cover, he slowly made his way to the double doors. Inside was every style of clothes, you could imagine flapper dresses, cowboy outfits, pinstriped suits, roman armor, Viking first and helmets, marching band outfits, uniforms, furs, leathers, skins, and even what looked like a big pink bunny suit. They had an extra section of Santa Claus costumes. And hats! Every type of hat he ever saw, and a lot he hadn’t. He turned down the monitor headset, afraid the sound may carry through the room. After making sure nobody was around, he made his way into the room. Racks upon racks made perfect hiding, but also, he was wary he might not see anyone in there himself. Scott saw handles sticking out of a bin and he stopped and pulled one out. Swords! He grabbed a few by the hilt, but they were all obviously wooden or plastic. In the next bin over, he found samurai swords. And they were metal! Now we were talking. He pulled one out of its scabbard and looked at the blade. Cheap and dull. Crudely fashioned like the stores in the malls that sold “Authentic Oriental Goods.” Probably just was well. He wasn’t a ninja or anything, what was he going to do? There didn’t appear to be any other way out, so he came around the row, and made for the doors again. There was a cluster of desks in the middle of the room, fabric and plastic, and boxes, and stuff all over the tops of them. A box next to the desk contained an assortment of guns. He picked one up - a shiny western six shooter. It had heft. Maybe it shot blanks. He fiddled with it until he got the cylinders open. They weren’t real. They were the end of them were capped in plastic painted to look like bullets were inside. One of them had a small brass object stuck in it, and he pried it off. It was blackened and smelled like gunpowder, but it was clearly some kind of noise making cap, kind of like the toy guns he had growing up, but much fancier. If he brought it, would anyone really believe he had a real gun? Doubtful. Maybe they’d be so busy laughing, he could run away. He set the gun on the desk, noticing a blueprint laid out. It was old, really old. It looked authentic. He studied it. He thought the large building was the theater, maybe - it was the right shape. He looked for and found the architect’s block. MAJESTIC THEATER, 1925. He noticed a long passageway off one side that ran behind the row of stores on the same block. They weren’t marked but did have walls and interior rooms marked out. Someone had scrawled BANK and circled it with a ballpoint pen on the building directly next to the theater. Except there wasn’t a bank there. It was Stan’s Collectibles and Comics. It was funny because the guy who owned it was an old Chinese guy named Stan Li. There were two Xs marked over walls. One in the theater, and one in the back wall of the Comic shop. He looked closer. It looked like there had been a vault there at one time. Was it still there? Would it still have money? Every instinct told him to run, but as far as he could find there were only two exits from the basement that might lead outside, and both were chained and padlocked. He was sure that was a fire code violation. He could go back up and try to get to the roof, but that was probably suicide, or he could try to sneak out the lobby, and that was definitely suicide. Oh god, he should have worked out instead of playing Atari all the time. Or gone running. Or taken Karate. All he had was the way he was. But he was scared and could run really fast if he needed to. The corridor in the blueprint didn’t show all the way down the block - it was cut off, but that hallway had to go somewhere. Maybe he could get out. He couldn’t just stand there. You have the tools; you have the talent - It’s milla time! He turned up the volume of the monitor and said, “Eartha, I’m going to try something. I don’t know if it will work, but if it doesn’t, just know that” he sighed. “Dillon’s a douche and you’re totally too good for him.” He turned the volume down again before she said anything. Scott took a few deep breaths and pounded his chest. He reached over and grabbed a prop gun, a pistol submachine gun. This one looked better. Maybe he could bluff his way out if it came down to it. # ““Dillon’s a douche and you’re totally too good for him.” She stumbled on the words to X-Ray Bondage and laughed out the next line. “What the gently caress is wrong with you?” She sang “Don’t do anything stupid!” Her father and sister watched her. Even from here, she could see they had strange expressions on their faces. She wondered if she could work her way over to the front of the stage before anyone noticed. And then what? They kept playing but ran out of originals and had to do more covers -simple ones they could fake their way through. Only seventeen and she was already a sell-out. Her arms ached and her throat was sore. She could play longer, but the tension was sapping her more quickly. During Sugar Sugar by the Archies, she began to sing, “Scott what is going on?” During the chorus. Gene looked at her again. He raised his walkie talkie and said something into it. The volume of the music dropped to human levels, mercifully, and now she heard her ears ringing. He came up the stage-right stairs and wandered over to her. He stood, staring at her for a minute. Then he looked at the drum machine, and then around the stage. “Why don’t you use your drum machine?” He said, loud enough for her to hear. She looked at him, then looked away. She let her hair droop over the side of her face. He bent down and looked up at her. “Eh? Why don’t you use your drum machine? Maybe you are missing a drummer?” Eartha shook her head and turned away. Gene was in front of her again. “Maybe Scott is your drummer? Do you think I don’t know words to songs? Do you think you are clever? Who is Scott?” Eartha glared back, then sang into the mic ignoring him. Gene drew close and spoke into the walkie talkie, making sure she heard. “We may have a loose band member. Keep an eye out. He might go by ‘Scott.’” She stared into the seats. What the hell was he doing? He’s going to get himself and us killed. # The basement wall of the theater had a big hole in it, and cartwheel tracks went through the dust and debris into the tunnel beyond. Someone had broken out the cinderblock wall, revealing the passageway makes in the blueprints. The corridor was dimly lit - the overhead bulbs looked ancient, and Scott was surprised they even worked. He went into the corridor and heard voices ahead. Slowly working his way forward, he came upon another broken out wall, this one must lead into the basement of Stan’s Comics. The voices were louder now, just ahead. Carts of crates were gathered in the interior hallway. He hesitated, sweating. Should he keep going, or try to get past whoever was in there, and get outside to get help? The corridor was probably a dead end too. If someone had walled it up, they would have walled up the far end too. He didn’t know why, but guessed when the buildings were bought, someone must have done it then. It had to be the comic shop. He hefted the prop gun. His hands were wet with sweat, and he hoped he wouldn’t drop it. Scott was about to start forward, when a man appeared in the shop hallway, walked over to the carts, and wheeled one back with him. Now, it had to be now. He started forward, slowing when he got to the junction the man had come out. Peeking his head around the corner, he squinted into bright light. It was a vault. Shop lights illuminated the vault entrance and the large steel door. Tools littered the floor. A stethoscope hung from one of the handled on the large round door mechanism that looked like an old sailing ship wheel. Several men were in the vault rummaging around, loading things into the crates on the cart. “What the hell is this crap?” One guy said. “I thought we were doing a big hit.” “We are,” someone replied. Do you know how much this stuff is worth? Look at this - Mickey Mantle’s jersey. And his baseball cards. You see that? That’s Superman number one.” “Yeah? So?” “So, doofus, this stuff is worth a fortune!” Ah, so that was what they were doing. Breaking into Stan’s and using the bands as cover. Time to get some help. He stepped forward and he heard, “Hey!” One of the men in the vault was pointing at him. Scott swung the pop gun at him. “Stay back! Hands up!” The man slowly complied, looking to other side at other men Scott couldn’t see. “You stay there. Nobody move.” Scott’s voice cracked. He held the prop gun out and willed his hands not to shake, but they did, and the barrel of the gun wavered. The man started to lower his hands and Scott stepped forward. “I said don’t move!” The man froze. “What are you going to do, kid? Huh?” Yeah, Scott what are you going to do? “Come on kid, drop the gun and maybe you and everyone else gets out alive.” Scott hesitated. The sound of a walkie talkie crackled but he couldn’t make out the words. The man’s face softened, and he smiled like a cat watching a canary. “Hey, are you Scott?” “What?” Scott squeaked. “No, I don’t know who Scott is.” “Uh huh, sure, listen Scott, put the gun down. You might shoot me, but I got four other guys in here.” He looked around at whoever Scott couldn’t see. “You can’t get us all.” Glancing around, Scott spied the stethoscope again. If they had used that. If they didn’t ruin the lock— The man saw Scott’s gaze and lunged toward the opening. Scott dropped the gun, grabbed the edge of the vault door, and pushed with all his might, which wasn’t considerable. Still, the door was well counterweighted, and massive. He had physics in his favor. The man hit the door and tried to stop it, but he might as well be trying to push a train and the door slammed closed anyway. Scott spun the wheel, and he heard the mechanism engage with a thunk. Muffled shouting came from behind the door. Leaning against the door, Scott allowed himself to catch his breath. The steel felt cool, and pleasant, but he didn’t have a lot of time. He let go of the door and waited to see if it swung back out, but it stayed in place. Good. He slid the prop gun under a cart and headed for the front of the store and the telephone. # Eartha shouted at Letters to Nancy to get up and play, but the three of them just say with their heads down. She had started again on original songs, and her fingers ached. She stopped singing two songs ago. “Hey Gene,” she said into the mic. “How long we gotta do this?” Gene fiddled with the walkie talkie. Turned dials, it the side a couple times. “What? I can barely hear you. What happened? What door?” He practically shouted into it. “Gene?” She said into the mic. He pointed at her. “You shut up! You play as long as we need!” As long as they need? She wondered what he would do if they just stopped playing. Risky but worth a try. They probably wouldn’t Shoot everyone, or even anyone if they needed Eartha to play for some reason. She stopped. Siouxshe’s played another couple notes and stopped. Dillon came up behind her. “What the hell are you doing?” “What the hell are you doing?” Gene yelled and stormed up the stairs again. “Play, drat you!” “Screw you, man. I ain’t playing poo poo no more.” Eartha said. “Why, you,” Gene marched across the stage at her. She heard loud clatters behind her, and she looked back. The goons in the back of the stage had both tossed their weapons and slid them off into the wings. “Eartha.” Scott’s voice wasn’t in the monitor this time. He stepped around one of the goons and prodded him forward with something. He motioned at the other who started forward as well. Gene stopped, eyes bulging. “What the gently caress are you two doing?” The goon Scott escorted looked sheepish and thumbed back at Scott, who waved the machine pistol. “Where the gently caress did you get that?” Eartha said. Gene looked from one goon to the other, and then squinted at Scott. He burst into a fit of laughter. “Oh, this is precious. You’re Scott, aren’t you?” “Maybe.” Scott said sounding defensive. He pointed the machine pistol at Gene. “Stand down.” Gene laughed again, “‘Stand Down’ he says, oh my this is the best thing I’ve ever seen.” Tears made rivulets in his makeup. He pointed at the goons. “You two are morons. Look at what he’s got, it’s a toy gun!” “No, it’s not. I’ll shoot.” Scott’s voice broke. Gene was turning red now. “Stop it, stop it. You’re killing me!” He reached behind him and pulled a pistol from the back of his costume belt and pointed it at Scott, becoming serious. “Put the toy down, Scott.” Gene walked forward keeping the pistol pointed at Scott’s face.” “Scott, do as he says,” Dillon said. “Shut up, Dillon.” Scott said. Eartha said, “Scott, really, do as he says. It was a good try, but don’t get yourself killed.” Scott pointed the machine pistol at Gene, who came on without wavering. They stopped facing each other, Gene’s pistol held with precision, and Scott’s weapon shaking in his hand. Scott let out a breath and dropped the prop gun. “Good boy,” Gene said. “DON’T MOVE! HANDS UP! THIS IS THE POLICE, DON’T MOVE!” voices barked, and Eartha heard dozens of heavy footsteps. She looked around, and police in Tactical gear moved in through every door with precision. The Shredds hesitated, then threw down their weapons and were forced to the ground and handcuffed. She looked back and Gene still held the pistol trained on Scott. “Hey Gene! It’s over. You lost.” She said. “It’s not over batgirl,” Gene said. I can still shoot Scott here. That will at least be some satisfaction for me, don’t you think? I have listened to your caterwauling and wailing, and screeching all night and — “ An electric guitar came down on Gene’s head with a loud thunk and broke in two. Gene crumpled, instantly, head bloody, his eyes rolled back into his head. The pistol clattered to the floor. Eartha stood over him, breathing heavy. “She’s loving CATWOMAN!” She shouted and spat. She looked at the instrument. “drat, I broke my guitar.” Scott stared for a second and yelled, “He could have shot me!” “But he didn’t” she said. “He could have!” “But he didn’t!” Scott looked at her. “You saved my life.” Eartha said, “You saved mine.” They hugged each other tight for a minute. They pulled apart and Scott looked into her eyes. Eartha said, “If you go in for a kiss, I’m breaking Siouxshe’s bass over your head.” “Hey! Siouxshe said. A police officer came up to them, “Are you kids okay?” “Yes, Officer,” Eartha said. “We’re not hurt. Although him—” she nudged Gene with a combat boot, and he groaned. She missed her chance to get him with her boot. The officer picked up the prop gun. “Where did you learn how to handle these, son?” Scott blushed. ‘Oh, that’s just some prop I picked up. Didn’t fool him though.” The officer turned the machine pistol around, flicked the safety on, and ejected the magazine. He showed the bullets to them. “Nope, it’s real, and the safety was off. Lucky you didn’t kill someone.” Scott went pale. “It … was … real?” He turned, doubled over, and vomited. Eartha shook her head. “My big drat hero.” -- Fini --
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Jul 31, 2023 03:27
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