Hell Patrol

by R. D. Tarver

  “Hey man, some people are going to show up, right?”

  Rick beamed up at his little brother. “You just worry about the set. Leave the rest to me.”

  By five-’til-Coors Light, a small crowd of regulars had taken up residence at the bar. The dance floor remained empty. Jesse was pacing in front of the restrooms, inhaling a cigarette, when Alex appeared near the stage carrying a bucket of beer.

  “These cowboys are all right—they didn’t even ask for my id.” He handed out the beers to the band.

  Just as Jesse twisted open the bottle, the front door swung open, revealing an entourage of black-clad, long-haired youths who piled into the cramped bar.

  The girls came in last, each wearing dark makeup and skintight clothing, with gravity-defying shocks of hair that shot out from their scalps in all directions, assisted in great part by what Jesse could only assume were untold quantities of mousse and Aqua Net.

  “Let’s hear some fucking Hell Patrol!” someone called out.

  A wave of adrenaline washed over Jesse as he took the stage. He could hear his heart beating in his ears while he tried to compare tuning with Alex.

  From his vantage point on the stage, he began to witness the mixture of denim, leather, pearl snaps, and polyester as they converged like warring factions on the dance floor battlefield, filling the small room.

  Yosemite ’Nam whistled towards the back room and another bartender came out to feed the growing rush at the bar. The beginnings of a crowd had begun to form on the dance floor in front of the stage.

  “Fear not, young mage,” Mazes said. He pulled out a drumstick from the leather quiver he wore over his shoulder and brandished it over his head like a sword. “Tales of our conquest will spread throughout the realm after this night.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Jesse replied. “How are you so calm?”

  Mazes smiled wide. “Visions of a glorious death visited me yesternight during my slumber.” He pulled the second drumstick from his quiver and warmed up with a series of triplets on the closed hi-hat as he continued. “Bearing witness to my awaiting corpse is a fortuitous omen I will not soon forget.”

  “I’ll try to remember that the next time I have a vision of my own death.”

  Rust jumped up on stage and checked the mic. A wave of ear-splitting feedback resounded over the two wall-mounted speakers that hung precariously over the rear of the stage.

  Jesse felt himself leave his body as soon as he heard Mazes give a four count on the hi-hat.

  Yosemite ’Nam had already stepped out from behind the bar when the first note rang out on Alex’s guitar. Before he had finished the instrumental opener, “Embryo” by Black Sabbath, from the album Master of Reality, released in 1971 on Vertigo Records, the bright beam of the tactical flashlight trailed across the stage.

  Just as the band was about to seamlessly transition into “Children of the Grave,” the flashlight was aimed directly into Rust’s eyes, causing him to miss his vocal cue. Hell Patrol struggled through an off-tempo, stifled rendition of the cover before catching their breath.

  Raucous bouts of laughter and sarcastic applause gave Jesse pause to gather the others in front of Mazes’s drum kit. As he looked over the crowd, he saw Mal towards the back of the room, swapping out the lenses on her camera.

  “All right, fuck this. Let’s just pretend we’re back home at the trailer doing our thing, and doing it loud,” said Jesse. “Fuck these redneck assholes and the horses they rode in on.”

  Rust took the mic with renewed vigor and let out a volley of high-pitched vibrato that announced the ambitious next number: “Evil” by Mercyful Fate, the opening track from the album Melissa, released in 1983 on Roadrunner Records. Jesse saw Alex turn up the volume knob on his amp, and did the same.

  Playing in their native sonic environment, the band pulsed ahead with an amateurish, yet blistering set of covers.

  Jesse snarled at the audience as the flashlight swept the stage. The dance floor was now packed with an army of heshers who were overtaking the venue.

  Yosemite ’Nam looked to the line that had formed at the bar and then back to the band, and opted to sheathe his flashlight in order to contend with the masses who were lining up for drinks.

  The half-hour set flew by as the band settled into a rhythm.

  Rust was galvanized by the energy of the crowd and began to work the stage. He kicked over the mic stand and wrapped the cable around his neck. Some of the regulars were even getting into the energy and were whistling through their fingers at the end of each song.

  Another bucket of ice-cold beer made its way to the front of the stage.

  Jesse saw Mal weaving in and out of the crowd, snapping shots and changing lenses. He felt alive; he felt powerful for the first time in his life. He was transformed by the collective sonic ritual whose power was being reaffirmed and reflected in what felt like an endless sea of raised devil horns that penetrated the dingy cloud of smoke that hovered over the dance floor.

  “Thank you, Macomb Springs!” Rust called out between songs. “You’ve been a terrible fuckin’ audience.” He took a mock bow and reached down for one of the bottles of beer from the bucket at his feet, took a heavy swig, and showered the front row of the dance floor with the rest.

  Jesse looked to the setlist taped to the stage in front of him. The words Hell Hole of Death etched in Rick’s scrawl jumped off the page.

  He looked to Mazes, whose wide-eyed grin had transformed into a maniacal grimace. Mazes read the cue and launched into a Scott Travis-inspired intro that heralded their lone original number.

  Rust screamed over the mic. “Thanks for comin’ out tonight! We are Hell Patrol, and this is our last song.” He shoved the mic down the front of his pants and reached for another beer, ignoring the squeal of feedback as he chugged its contents.

  An older woman at the bar with long, braided hair cupped her ears as she watched the stage in astonishment.

  The intro to “Hell Hole of Death” was executed in near flawless precision. The band’s regimented practice schedule was showcased in the original composition unlike the covers that had up to now only enticed the crowd into wanting more.

  As Alex took his solo, he approached the front of the stage, sending the front row of the audience into a frenzy.

  The song felt like it was already over before it began. As the final notes rang out, a thunderous applause broke out from the crowd. Some of Rick’s old diy metal crew even rushed the stage and tried to lift Jesse over their shoulders.

  By the time the headliner took the stage, the metal crowd had dispersed to the parking lot. Two large conversion vans were competing for volume as they blasted metal standards into the night. Rick wheeled up to Jesse and Mal who were watching Rust misfire an attempt at shotgunning a beer, much to the delight of some of the older crowd.

  “We did it!” exclaimed Rick. “Yosemite ’Nam totally waived the pay fee—he turned it back over to the band. Said we could even come back if we wanted.”

  Cheers erupted from the parking lot.

  Mal grabbed Jesse by the arms and hopped up and down. Jesse joined her until the bile rose up in his throat; he proceeded to vomit on the custom chrome rims of a midnight blue conversion van.

  Before he blacked out, he thought he saw Mr. Agostino climbing into his Bronco from across the parking lot.

  6

  Jesse found himself alone in the darkness.

  A familiar voice echoed from across the empty chasm that opened in front of him. He watched as his brother materialized from the other side. He could hear Rick’s voice, distantly, but he couldn’t make out the words. Jesse realized his brother was out of his wheelchair, standing on his own, peering over the edge of the pit into the darkness below.

  A confused jumble of questions tore through Jesse’s mind as he tried to call out to his brother.

  Below, a great swirling shape emerged from the darkness of the pit, stirring up the foul air as it rose, obscuring Jesse’s
vision. A deep, bellowing horn blew from some distant and forgotten place to announce the dark presence that began to materialize between the two brothers.

  Jesse awakened to Rick at his bedside.

  “Seriously, wake up.” Rick said. “We have work to do.”

  Before Jesse could open his eyes, his feet spirited him to the bathroom, where he proceeded to expel the previous night’s indulgence.

  “Well, you might play like a pro, but you sure as fuck can’t party like one—which is good.” Rick cleared his throat as he prattled on. “Nearly sixty-five percent of up-and-coming rock bands are waylaid by substance abuse at some point in their careers. And that’s usually after they get swindled into signing their first bullshit record contract. Might as well get it out of your system now, while you’re still poor and unaccomplished.”

  Jesse dry-heaved into the toilet.

  “Would it make you feel any better if I told you that while you were blacked out in the van, I was building up your fan base and schmoozing with investors?”

  Jesse flushed the toilet and washed his face in the sink.

  “Investors?”

  “There was a small business owner who seemed open to an investment opportunity, especially after I plied him with a few drinks.” Rick smirked as he continued to recount the meeting. “He’s a total sleaze bag, likely a child molester, and he’ll probably rob us of any profits—he’s perfect.”

  “What kind of small business owner? And what was he doing at that dive bar?”

  “He owns the used car lot next door.”

  “Of course.”

  “Before you rush to judgment, hear me out. The guy was a walk-up. He heard the band from the street and saw the bar at capacity—you’re welcome by the way.”

  Jesse looked from the mirror to his brother. “Did all that really happen?”

  “Oh yes, little bro.” Rick grinned. “You guys fucking killed.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, I mean the crowd was totally planted, and half your set was out of time and out of tune, but other than that you guys were generally decent—especially the original number.” He looked to the small sketchbook that he constantly carried as he read through his notes from the show. “I mean, we have a lot of work do to, but I think we have a shot. But my point is…the investor agrees.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  Rick fished around in his chair caddy and produced a crisp, light-blue bank check. He waved it under his nose as he inhaled deeply. “It means we just got a bankroll for a new backline.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Rick pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Remember my ol’ buddy Robb-O, the floor manager of the Sound Emporium?

  “The guy with the weird eye that you used to roadie with?”

  “Yeah. Well, I just got off the phone with him and he said he can have the gear shipped over from the warehouse by Wednesday.” Rick turned to a page in his sketchbook and ripped it out. “This is what he has in stock that fits our budget. And before you and little Alex Van Weasel go off the rails, remember it’s just an advance. We still have to pay this shit back.”

  Jesse poured over the list of amps, guitars, and pa gear, all organized by make and model.

  “Holy shit. The guys are going to freak the fuck out.”

  “Robb-O’s boss clocks out at six p.m. Just make sure you guys show up after he leaves so Robb-O can give you the employee discount.”

  Jesse’s gear lust faded into disappointment as he added up the cost of all the equipment in his mind. “Wait. So if this guy is gonna want his money back, how do we plan on paying him?”

  “While you have been getting your beauty sleep, I’ve been up making calls.” Rick paused to make a note in his sketchbook. “We’re booked next month at Beggar’s Banquet Hall on the eleventh. It’s a locals night, but the headliner is legit—big up-and-comer on the scene. And it pays.”

  Jesse’s eyes widened at the news. “You got us a show in the city?”

  Rick smiled. “Do altar boys leave Rorschach stains whenever they sit down?”

  7

  Returning to the mundane was a difficult transition after Hell Patrol had taken The Deep Well by storm. The high experienced by being well received on stage offered more than any chemical substance Jesse had ever experienced in his short life.

  Almost anything.

  Mal was also occupying an ever-increasing expanse within his thoughts.

  In contrast, school had become an exercise in tedium, a distraction that seemed to get in the way of the pursuit of conquest for that which sustained him, made him whole. Naturally, Jesse’s grades had plummeted and he had accumulated several unexcused absences. The negative report of his academic performance had made its way back to Jesse’s parents.

  As part of an arrangement brokered by his mother, Jesse was required to meet with guidance counselor Agostino once per week until his grades and attendance improved, or he would risk being excommunicated from the band. He elected to take the meetings during his lunch hour to avoid staying after class to keep his evenings free for practice and spending time with Mal.

  When Jesse arrived at the first of his daily meetings, the door to Mr. Agostino’s office was already open. He heard what he thought was an acoustic guitar being played. Upon further inspection, the instrument appeared to be a lute, or some other medieval artifact unlikely to grace the cover of one of the guitar rags that Jesse read. As Agostino plucked the strings, a bouquet of gentle dulcet tones filled the air.

  “Please, come in,” Agostino said, offering the instrument to Jesse. “Care to play?”

  “Thanks, but I’d probably just break it. I don’t really know how to play any instruments other than my bass.”

  “And how is the band coming along?”

  “Actually, we just got some guy to invest in a new backline. Finally gonna have some pro-gear. A full pa system too.”

  “A new backline and a full pa system?” Agostino seemed intrigued by the news. “That is very exciting. Congratulations.” He looked to the arcane wooden instrument resting in his lap. “You know, it might help to master your instrument by exploring the iterative forms that preceded its evolution.”

  “I don’t think the other guys would go for that.” Jesse laughed at the image in his mind. “Well, maybe our drummer would be into it, but that’s a different story.”

  “It might seem antiquated, but Tony Iommi could not have conceived of the heavy metal genre if his predecessors had not developed the twelve-tone temperament on instruments just like this one.”

  “How do you know so much about metal?”

  Agostino hung the lute on the wall. Jesse’s question lingered unanswered while the guidance counselor fumbled through a stack of books on the shelf behind the desk.

  “Ah yes, here it is.” He produced a leather-bound manuscript and handed it to Jesse. The title read, A Diachronic Analysis of the Heavy Metal Genre: From Wagner to Black Sabbath. “My master’s thesis.”

  “You can major in Black Sabbath?”

  “Ethnomusicology.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Simply put, it is the study of music in a cultural context. An attempt to explain the impact that music has made among humanity as pontificated by elitist academics.”

  “Cool. Not sure if college is for me. Besides, I don’t think my parents would go for studying something like that.”

  Agostino laughed. “I can say from experience that you should follow your passions, even if they seem impractical to others.”

  “Is that how you ended up here?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Jesse pointed to the shelf where a set of pipes were displayed. “What’s that one?”

  “Pan pipes. Used by ancient Greeks of the Cyclades. Their namesake refers to the pastoral god, Pan, patron of shepherds.”

  “No, the one next to it, on the left.” Jesse pointed to a thin, unassuming instrument with four small holes distribu
ted at equal intervals along its length. Upon closer inspection, the surface of the pipe appeared irregular, like it had been broken to pieces and then glued back together.

  “Ah yes. The simple shepherd’s pipe—a Neolithic precursor to the Pan pipes—thought to possess a certain acoustic tonality conducive to pacifying the flock.” Agostino carefully picked up the instrument and held it for Jesse to observe. “This particular item is an authentic cultural relic, originating from Mesopotamia circa 4000 bce. It is sort of a family heirloom.”

  “So they used music to control sheep? I guess that explains Bon Jovi.”

  “Astute observation.” Agostino smiled as he returned the pipe to its resting place. “The expression of certain acoustic wave forms has the ability to affect environments, both organic and non-organic, by manipulating matter through the vibrations of subatomic particles.”