“Dude, Juan, what’s taking Dean so long?” Henry asks, leaning his guitar against the amp. “We need to get out of sight. This is a huge mistake. I think we should bail.”
“I don’t know,” Pandemic says, realizing the last few days weren’t hallucinations. “Wait, no, no. This is our big chance. This is our opportunity to do something with our lives. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been thinking a lot about responsibility.”
“You’ve what?”
A sudden bath of calm fills its water around Pandemic. It’s not Henry’s fault Grandpa is dead. It’s Dad’s. I need Henry, because I need the band, because I need a family. These guys—unlike Dad and Grandpa—never asked me to be anyone else. “I’m tired of being lazy, I want to put my mind to this and make it happen. Even if we don’t get signed, this is what I want. I’ll do anything for it. I’m not a hamburger guy. I don’t want to be my dad or even my grandpa.”
“Yeah,” Hamler sighs and thinks about the last time he saw Pandemic’s grandpa. He doesn’t want to make a living doing that, either. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Martin. “I’m really sorry. I mean that.”
“I know.”
“I would take it back if I could.”
“It’s okay, man. I forgive you. Don’t feel bad. I shouldn’t have been treating you like this.”
“Thanks,” he says, locking eyes, understanding fully what a kind person Juan is. “Maybe you’re right. We should split. I’ll give Dean ten more minutes.”
Pandemic lightly taps his stick to the floor tom skin. Its snap isn’t as deep as normal. He still can’t understand how the drum’s tuning got ruined during its short trip from the practice space to the club.
Timothy Winters/Juan Pandemic lifts the mask and watches Hamler silently mouth, “Oh shit.” He focuses on the entrance, still well lit, where two guys in buzz cuts and cheap ties flash shiny badges to Roland Winters.
Dean swallows a deep breath, fingertips bubbling with numbness—the same guilty pang he used to feel when Mom blamed him for Dad’s behavior. “So, what does this mean?” he manages to spit up before pushing that long breath through his nose.
“How could you?” Malinta’s voice washes away into the chit-chatter of the dark club.
Napoleon folds up the computer. “I’ll give you the original VHS and this, the only copy, for…well…” He tucks the white laptop under a sweaty, tapioca arm. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Their eyes adjust to the darkness and each body becomes clearer and more carved out. They spend a few silent seconds watching each other’s face.
“Hey, hey, big guy,” McComb says, wedging his body against Deshler’s. “A thousand sorrys. I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important, but our friends Toji and Yung-Yung are on their way back to the hotel.”
In Deshler’s skull, he’s already muttered: “Look, man, I need a few minutes here.” But his mouth hasn’t unwound yet. He bites the tip of his tongue as neck muscles tighten. “Wh-what? What does that mean?”
“Not trying to scare you, bud, honestly. It’s a good thing. They’re convinced you guys are great.” McComb’s face is close, seeking the singer’s eyes in the dark. “They didn’t want to spoil anything by judging your performance. Must be some Japanese custom-thing, like taking off your shoes. Anyhow, don’t let me ramble. Lothario Speedwagon is in. Congratulations. Consider the band signed.” His lips pull tight and a whisper forms just loud enough for the entire group to hear: “And here’s a little taste of your advance.” He presses a small leather satchel into Deshler’s stomach.
Malinta looks at the clock on the wall. She has five minutes to escape. She nearly forgot.
McComb leans behind Dean’s ear. Cold eyeglass frames dig into Deshler’s steaming skin. “A hundred grand up front,” he pokes Deshler’s arm. “Four hundred more when you guys decide which producer to record your debut with.” He pulls back and leaves the bag in Deshler’s arms. “Told you it wouldn’t be in a sack.”
“I don’t—”
“As you were, gang.” McComb disappears into the dark.
Compared to the previous evening Dean spent at the Beef Club, things couldn’t be more different. Silence is replaced with hundreds of rowdy, confused voices. The overhead lights are replaced by dull purplish glow from the stage. Yesterday’s peace and sense of purpose are replaced by some chaotic mess brewing inside.
Everything still smells like stale beer, though.
Napoleon blubbers out a wet, throaty laugh. “That’ll,” he slides into giggles. “That’ll be just about right!” The laughs continue, loud and oblong, like some choking animal.
Malinta’s green eyes lock on the tiny bag. “Just let it go, hon,” she says, flicking eyes back at the wall clock. “It’s not the end of the world. But if that tape landed in the wrong hands.”
“Not to scare you,” Napoleon says in a low blubber. “But it will if you don’t…you know.” Napoleon’s hairy knuckles slip on the top of the bag. He gives a forceful jerk.
“Fine,” Dean says in a tone barely registering as a chirp. He is reminded there is a lot more coming from Moral Compass. He’s reminded he’s not in it for the money. “When, ugh, when’ll I get the tapes?”
The new thousandaire presses a button on the side of the computer. A shiny silver disc pops out and he hands it over. Napoleon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black plastic VHS tape. A huge grin hangs between his cheeks.
“Well, I guess,” Deshler says, mustering back his usual growl, his chest full of heat. “I guess this is goodbye forever. Later.”
The chunky valet spreads open the leather bag and sees it stacked with green bills. His lips crack a smile. “You bet your ass this is goodbye. All I ever wanted was your attention, man. To be friends on the same level—not Deshler Dean and Sidekick Number One. The way all this came together, it just felt like a good opportunity to prove my point. You know, you’re not the only guy who wants people to listen to him. You just shove away anyone with another voice.”
Eyes finally adjust to the light. Everyone has a hazy red quality about them.
“Boys,” CEO Winters says in his most professional voice. “These gentlemen are from the police department.” He flashes a smile to Lothario’s drummer and bassist.
Guy #1 with a buzzcut says, “I’m Detective Hogan.” He points to Buzzcut #2. “And this is Detective Ireland.”
The meth Pandemic inhaled before setting up still farts around his skull. Pure shit like this owns a momentum independent of anything else. “Ah, Ireland,” he slurs in a leprechaun voice. “That’s a fine Irish name.”
Roland Winters jabs quick fingers at the rhythm section. “Boys! Take off those stupid masks. This is important.”
“Relax, pop.”
Winters’ shoulders get broad and tense. He leans into his son.
“Why don’t you,” Juan says, “go into the corner and try to pretend you’re grandpa some more?”
“Timothy!”
“Forget it,” Juan leans back, loose. “You don’t understand.”
One detective butts in. Pandemic can’t tell the difference between the two cops. “If we could, we’d like to ask you a few questions about the past couple days.”
The police wait at the foot of the stage. Hogan is close enough to kiss the oil drum. Ireland smells the burning hot vacuum tubes in the back of the bass cabinet.
“We’re busy, can’t you see?” Henry says—wondering what Martin would do in this situation. Martin would’ve stuck up for himself. Good job.
“Henry,” Roland Winters says with a stern, fatherly tongue. “This takes top priority, understand?”
“Whose priorities?”
“Yeah,” Juan says with a cymbal tap.
“Oh no,” Ireland or Hogan says, whichever is closest to the CEO. “We have lots of time. We’ll gladly wait until after the…performance. Right partner?”
His partner agrees.
“Well, alright then, let’s g
et some drinks, sound good?” Winters says, putting a hand on each detective’s back. “Ever drank merlot from a box? Delicious. My father loved it.”
Henry and Pandemic gawk with foreign confusion.
“Oh, and one last thing,” the buzzcut says. “We have orders to use force if necessary. You know, just in case you get any wild ideas.”
Malinta Redding pushes her on-again/off-again boyfriend down the emergency exit stairwell. His sober senses are scrambled from the recent financial loss. A Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. Poof. His feet don’t even stop shuffling until they realize Malinta’s cattle-prodding him down gray cement steps two at a time.
“Wait, whoa, easy,” he says, as the fog in his brain burns off like San Francisco around lunchtime. The stairs smell like basement. Walls are wet and cold against fingertips. “I need to get back up there. We still have a gig.”
“Just move, it’s almost ten. Go, sweetie, run,” she says, shoving the back of his head, descending a spiral of blocky steps.
His voice echoes from the stairwell basement to the rooftop: “Malinta, are you out of your mind? If we don’t play that show my career is over.”
“Deshler, if you play that show you’ll be dead.”
“Psssst, Henry,” a whisper forms in the dark behind the stage. “Henry, quick, back here.”
Hamler flips off the mask and sharpens his espionage reflexes. The handbook doesn’t specifically reference what to do when a strange voice calls your name from the dark. Henry thinks for a second that the book should, though—what could be more spy-like than creepy voices and shadows?
“Hello?” Henry says, stiffening fists, inching toward the black wall of the Beef Club.
For the second time in a day, Henry Hamler nearly jams his boyfriend’s nose cartilage through his brain. Hostility Defense #01, some call it.
“Martin!” The clutch of his heart finds an extra gear and stomps the gas. Henry swoops low, out of breath, arms going tight around his man. Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Martin’s hair smells, as expected, great. Henry never thought he’d smell it again—it’s a comfort, a thrill. Kisses follow so fast Henry doesn’t even examine them, he just repeats.
“Grab Juan, those two guys aren’t cops.” Martin says, wiggling from the hug. “If you two are left alone with them for five seconds they’ll pry your spine out through your throat.”
“Thank God you’re okay. I thought for sure they killed you.” He stops and takes a deep breath. The moment he’s been dreaming about pauses when he thinks about the band. The urge for another kiss is tough to fight, but he manages. Martin looks so dead serious about this. “I’m sorry, but we have to play a show, I promised Juan. It’s the biggest gig of our lives. I’m sorry, I can’t. I have combat training. I can handle these guys.”
“Henry, it’s me. Why would I tell you something if it wasn’t important?”
Hamler leans closer, crouching down to lip-level. Thinking about another round. “Where have you been? What happened?”
Martin comes into the light, so handsome and pure. “Not sure, I woke up in a highway underpass. Didn’t Pandemic see?”
“Don’t ask him.”
“The radio was really dirty,” he says from behind the drums.
“Look, I have a hunch. Nobody at headquarters seems to agree, but I can’t see something happen to you. You mean too much to me.”
“Dean, if you play that show you’ll be dead.”
The second Malinta’s lips close, the stairs jerk back and forth. There’s a crashing, squealing explosion from the eighteenth floor. Lumps of concrete jar loose and twirl down the stairwell. The noise is so violent it could be a Lothario Speedwagon jam session pumped through nightmare-loud speakers.
Dean smells fireworks. Burnt hair. Bonfires.
The explosion barrel-rolls Malinta and Deshler across the stairs and smashes them against walls. A string of kabooms lob the pair further down the concrete.
Lights flicker off in a hellish strobe effect that reminds Deshler of that Butthole Surfers concert so many years ago, but with a higher chance of concussion.
An alien fear finds Dean: Save Malinta. Is she okay?
How’s that alien? you’re probably saying. It is a foreign jolt when you’ve never, ever, not once since being shipped off to foster care, worried about another person but yourself.
It’s a shock.
“Tonight on a very special Nightbeat,” Sharon Smalley says.
It’s ten at night and our show begins. After the bike messenger delivered a DVD with a handwritten note, the producer canned tonight’s initial episode about volcano-proofing your home.
“Shocking footage of the Moscow Two and their captives. Hostage Carl Janomi, better known as imposter cosmonaut, Dimitri Nimov, and his daring undercover surveillance footage.” The theme music rises to its climax. “The mystery of the cosmonaut reign of terror will finally be answered on Nightbeat.”
Commercials start.
Malinta is fine. She’s actually the one dragging Dean. She swings open the exit door at the bottom of the crumbling stairs. Bright sunshine ignites above them. The dead Friday night street is lit up like noon as another apocalyptic bomb rattles through the building. The smell of charcoal and tire fires sweep over the city. Dean begins sweating.
Deshler coughs ash and noxious gases outside his old valet post. Black slime drools to the cement.
A rush of relief pillows Malinta’s brain as the Beef Club windows explode like laughter in church. Pellets of flaming concrete and mahogany and body parts rain across the street. The mission is a success.
Things fell behind schedule tonight. Lothario Speedwagon was actually supposed to perform. But rock concerts rarely start on time—too many unscripted moments with voyeuristic valets and buzzcut detectives. Malinta honestly wanted Dean to have that last gig with his friends.
But, she thinks, marveling at their luck when Dean switched venues. This works out for the best. More birds, less stones.
Henry’s bass amp was plugged tight as a tube of cookie dough with thirty pounds of plastic explosives. The speaker system shredded apart in a fiery pop that melted the club’s windows at exactly ten o’clock. This triggered Pandemic’s floor tom and the oil drum—both weighed down heavy with an explosive fertilizer compound. At least that’s how Malinta was told it would happen.
She hates not being more hands-on. But Wally is supposed to be an expert at demolition. Her assistant is also said to be pretty slick. Rumor has it Wally spent time in the CIA. The explosives team supposedly had plenty of time to set up the trap. Plus, Malinta reminds herself, she’s been trying not to be such a control freak. It’s no way for a respectable lady to behave.
Nightbeat grabs our viewers by the throat the instant teeth whitening gel commercials end. Grainy home video footage ignites across the screen like Pandemic’s drum kit. It’s not a great shot, it wouldn’t even fly at Sundance, but it’s pretty simple to make out Henry Hamler and that scrubby beard standing in a bus full of bullet holes. He waves his doughy hands around explaining to his boyfriend, drummer and two terrorist cosmonauts everything we already know: there’s a spy network amongst the two burger giants, he murdered Christopher Winters under orders from Roland and he was told to execute the VP of Bust-A-Gut’s Marketing. Juan Pandemic confesses his sins: he’s actually Timothy Winters—hardcore meth addict, son of Roland and contest winner. Martin explains his role, as well as how commonly he kills with orders from Findlay and Lepsic—he lists off Winters employees, foreign diplomats, rogue fry cooks, and the original Bonzo the Burger Clown as victims.
Henry never realized the blood pooling from Dimitri’s blanket was corn syrup and dye—nobody ever actually saw any bullet-chopped flesh. Carl/Dimitri played possum for thousands of miles, hiding a fiber optic spycam and praying for this dramatic monologue. After getting dumped in a phone booth, he shed that wet blanket and walked to the safe house a few miles away. He quickly dubbed a DVD and called a bike messenger.
“Shocking footage,” Sharon says. She interviews a professor of economics from a nearby university. Our anchor asks what this video means to consumers. “Sharon, I’m afraid this is the Big One. A culinary Mount Vesuvius. Who do you trust when it comes to eating now? This footage proves both corporations are filthy, backstabbing liars. Add this to the already harsh publicity Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers and Bust-A-Gut have shouldered and you get two ruined American institutions. You get the consumer saying, ‘Good riddance.’
“Sharon, the people will take their empty stomachs and their hearty wallets somewhere else. Personally, I don’t see this as the death of two restaurant chains…which it is. Rather, this is an amazing opportunity to diversify American palettes. There’s room for more than two fast food restaurants. Mark my words, someone will step up and fill this gulch, Sharon.”
“Fascinating, professor. This has been a head-spinning day. Stay tuned for a recap before your eleven o’clock news.”
Our commercial break is nothing but Healthy Wally’s ads. Each one is tailored to be clean and innocent. Tailored to fill a gulch left by two major burger houses.
Deshler swallows his vomit in one fiery chug while Malinta opens a van door. He remembers being half-drunk a few nights ago, listening to his assistant explain, “Word on the street is, the cosmonauts are coming to chop off your head, sir. Maybe your testicles, too. Corey, in the mailroom, heard they only want one, though.”
High above the street, thick tongues of fire lick against the outer wall of the hotel, thirsty for second helpings. A ketchup-colored blazer smolders in a lump by Dean’s feet. It slowly fizzles into ash. The neck of a bass guitar hits the street and klonks around like a baseball bat. Snowflakes of bright pink papier-mâché nest in Dean’s hair. The street is a warzone.
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