by Brian Keene
“About who? The Starmen?”
Bob nodded.
“Nah.”
“It’s just that. I see the word cult, and I think of those Jonestown fellas. You know. The Kool Aid drinkers and such.”
“They all killed themselves, right?”
Bob nodded. “A mass suicide.”
“And you think something like that might happen at The Shantyman?”
“I just think we should be cautious with fellas like this. Cult fellas.”
Martin laughed. “I think we’re going to be just fine, Bob.”
Then the office door swung open and Jared stumbled inside, drenched head to toe in blood. “Holy shit,” he said, gasping for breath, “you will not believe what just happened.”
JUST TO BE SEEN
Somer Canon
“All right, pretty lady. You’re gonna have yourself a swell time here at The Shantyman,” the young man said. He fussed over jumping out of his car and running to her side to let her out. He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet.
She surveyed the dark but bustling parking lot like a queen taking account of her lands. The fool from whom she had accepted the offer of a date was practically hopping, so pleased was he to be seen with the likes of her. He didn’t know that she simply needed a ride to The Shantyman that night so that she could see the leader of the band, Will Fontaine.
She pulled her cheap coat closer about herself, and she smiled remembering the balmy summer evening just a mere three months earlier. The night Will Fontaine had held her hand after his band had played for an outdoor crowd. The night he kissed her.
She glanced at the young man who offered her his arm. He seemed nice enough, but he was no Will Fontaine. Will was tall and blond and talented. In short, everything that her heart had ever wanted.
She looked around disinterestedly as her date purchased tickets. She drank in the looks of those around her as the young man slipped the coat off of her shoulders in the coat room, knowing that she looked simply delicious in her two-tone silk gown. Her newly bleached hair, á la Jean Harlow, was in perfect waves around her face. Most others were in less formal attire. People came to The Shantyman to dance, and of course, drink. Even before Prohibition was thrown out, San Francisco wasn’t a dry town.
She smiled sweetly at her young man and asked for a champagne. She wouldn’t dare be seen drinking anything else that night. Not by Will Fontaine.
She leaned back onto the bar, extending her arms and making herself look like a fixture of the place. Around the perimeters were small tables and chairs, but in the middle were people scorching the floor boards, dancing away to the music of the band. Will was front and center, playing his horn, intensity making his fair features smolder at her across the room. She stared at him, willing him to look at her.
It didn’t happen. Annoyed, she threw her champagne back in one gulp and turned to the bartender.
“I’ll have another, please. He’ll pay,” she said, jerking her head toward her young man.
Both men scrambled to fulfill her wishes and when she had a fresh glass of bubbly in her hand, she strode through the dancers, knowing no one would dare to bump her and cause her to spill on her silken glory. She made it to the front, to just before the stage, and waited. Her heart stopped when Will’s eyes found her. His sensual lips puckered as he played his horn.
But before she could wave, or even smile at Will, his eyes left her and swept the herd of dancing people at her back. Furious, she stomped back toward the bar and went into the ladies’ room. It was only a small water closet, room only for one woman at a time, so she could glare at her reflection in the mirror in peace.
“You stupid, ugly fool,” she hissed. “You changed your looks so much that he doesn’t recognize you!”
That summer night, Will had kissed a slightly chubby girl with mousy brown hair. She stood there now, blond and trim, doing her best to look like a misplaced Hollywood glamor girl. Her dress looked like one that she had seen Joan Crawford wear in a magazine and her mother’s missing bottle of Clorox bleach told the tale of her knew platinum locks.
She took a deep breath and smiled sweetly at her reflection. She stood up straight and admired her figure in the alluring gown.
“Yes, you’re gorgeous. There’s no way he’ll ignore you tonight.” She said before heading back to the bar for another champagne.
There was a tall woman at the bar, her dark hair worn unfashionably in long curls. She was about two decades out of style, her shoes and dress hopelessly old and not belonging in such a swinging club. The woman was drinking something out of a tall glass, sucking on a straw lazily and swinging in time with the music. She looked at the young glamor girl and smiled.
“You look like you’re here to make a scene, honey,” the woman said.
“Simply having a nice night out is all,” she answered. “I’m here with a fella.”
“That young fool over there searching the room for you?” The woman pointed to one of the tables and there was the young man looking alone and miserable, scanning the throng of dancers for his fancy date. She lifted her arm and caught his eye. She smiled sweetly and gestured him over. He tripped and fell, but still made it to her in one piece.
“Hey honey, I need another drink,” she said in her soft, childish voice.
“Another champagne for the lady,” the young man automatically demanded.
When her drink was in her hand, she patted the young man on the cheek and turned away from him, leaning back on the bar and watching Will Fontaine make musical love to the room, not just to her. She grit her teeth.
“That fella playing the trumpet is a dish, ain’t he?” The dark haired woman asked.
Giving up on pretense, the young girl nodded dreamily.
“I came here to be with him again,” she said. “Will and I have history together.”
“History, huh? Well, history is important, you know. This place here, it has history. Lots of it. Stood here for decades even before the big earthquake. Lots of interesting people been through here. That bugle blower up there? Honey, he ain’t that interesting. If you’re wanting attention from a fella, I suggest you stick with the man plying you with drink, hoping only to be seen with your pretty self. That fella up on stage is a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind and they’re far from rare.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about! Will is wonderful and when he realizes who I am, we’ll run away together, and I’ll tour with him and we’ll be happy.”
“You’re young and allowed to be stupid,” the woman said, looking down into her dwindling drink. “But that youth fades, honey, and guys like that remain only as bad memories.”
“Well you’re old and stupid and mad that there aren’t any men looking at you!” She hissed. She bared her teeth at the woman. “I won’t sit here and listen to you. Just because you got used up and tossed aside doesn’t mean Will is like that! You’re just a bitter old hag!”
The woman grabbed her, a hand so cold that it hurt clamped down on her forearm and the glamor girl couldn’t move.
“Don’t make my mistakes, little girl. I’ve got all kinds of neat ideas on how to really make a splash!”
The chill left her, and the girl lurched away from the woman. When she regained her balance, she turned to scream at the crazy hag, but there was nobody there. The tall glass was empty, the chewed up straw was perched inside and there was no out-of-style woman with rag curls anywhere to be seen.
The young woman found herself suddenly unbothered as a rush of purpose flooded her. In that strange moment, she knew how to get Will Fontaine to see her. The bartender was busy shaking a drink at the opposite end of the bar. She lifted herself so that she could see over the bar into his workspace. There was a paring knife sitting next to several slices of lemon. She swiped the knife, taking a moment to look around to make sure that her theft wasn’t witnessed.
Again she walked through the dancing bodies, the music and their interest in each other act
ed as a cloak for her. At the right of the stage was a door that read STAFF ONLY. She went through. She was in a corridor that showed a flight of upward stairs to her right. Slightly to her left was a door that read STAGE ACCESS. She went through and found herself momentarily blinded by the lights at the front of the stage. When her eyes adjusted, she saw that some of the dancers were stopping their movements and looking at her curiously. The band, noticing the diverted attention of their audience slowly stopped, one instrument at a time. Will was the last to turn and look at her.
“Will,” she said to him, the feeling of his eyes fully on her draping her in ecstasy. “I came to see you tonight. I’m here to see you, Will.”
She clutched her left hand to her heart and walked slowly to the object of her desires. Will frowned at her and took a step back. Tears filled her eyes.
“I just wanted you to notice me,” she said softly. “I just wanted you to see me!” She screamed. She struck out with the paring knife. His arm came up defensively and the blade sank into his hand. He screamed. She screamed. She stabbed again, this time making purchase in his neck. She stabbed again, blood arcing out of him and all around her like a wet and gleaming fireworks display. She was vaguely aware of screams. There were many hands on her, several arms wound about her. Will had gone pale and still, his grip on his neck was going limp. She screamed and twisted in many grips, too many to hold her, and she stood at the front of the stage and put the blade on the left side of her neck.
“For you, Will!” She said before stabbing the tip into the delicate flesh and ripping toward the center of her throat. More screams as she fell to the floor. Everyone was running away, leaving The Shantyman to get away.
A table fell over, and the two chairs sitting on top of it crashed to the floor, a tangle of legs and wooden tops made a hellish clamor.
***
Everett Lincoln jumped and pulled one of his earbuds out, the voices from the podcast he’d been listening to while he swept the floors sounding soft and distant. He was alone in the room. There was no reason for the table and chairs to fall. He sighed and walked heavily to the front and set everything back to rights. He looked around again to be certain that he was alone and continued his sweeping.
“This place gives me the damn creeps, man,” he said to nobody at all.
PARODY
Jeff Strand
There hadn’t been a good song since 1989. Chester didn’t know what the last good song was, but it was in the ‘80s for sure. Everything since then was pure garbage recorded by talent-free “musicians” who were recruited by tone-deaf executives in fancy suits. It was all about money these days. Not in the ‘80s. The ’80s were about the music, and the music videos, not the almighty dollar.
Chester didn’t even recognize any of the songs “Weird Al” Yankovic was parodying anymore. They were still brilliant, but they might as well have been original compositions. “I Think I’m A Clone Now” instead of “I Think We’re Alone Now” was genius. “Word Crimes” instead of “Blurred Lines” might have been clever but he had no frickin’ idea what the “Blurred Lines” song was all about or who sang it and he had zero desire to find out.
That’s why “Zany Chester” only parodied songs from the ’80s.
“Material Girl”? How about “Material Squirrel,” bitches? “Born To Run”? Try “Born To Pun.” “99 Red Balloons”? “100 Red Balloons.” And that was barely half of his oeuvre.
He couldn’t believe that The Shantyman wouldn’t let him play there.
Oh, they had plenty of excuses. Their biggest one was that he didn’t play any instruments . . . and he didn’t have a band. Instead, he played the original song on his iPhone and sang over that. The manager had suggested that, while it wouldn’t change their decision about booking him, he should at least try singing to a karaoke track with the vocals removed.
Screw that. Anybody could sing to a karaoke track. When you had to compete against the original artist . . . well, that was a true parody. Weird Al was a god, but he’d never been onstage at the same time as Michael Jackson, performing “Eat It” while Michael was performing “Beat It.” The manager of The Shantyman just didn’t get him. Chester knew this was true because the manager had told him point blank: “I don’t get you.”
Chester offered to perform for free. The manager said he’d never even entertained the idea of paying him. Chester offered to pay a nominal fee for the stage time, which he would recoup through new pledges on his Kickstarter campaign. The manager said that he couldn’t afford to lose the customers. Chester suggested that he could shove the entirety of The Shantyman up his ass. The manager asked him to leave.
That is why Chester was standing in the audience, listening to the awful, awful, awful opening act, whose lyrics didn’t even make any sense (he was no racist, but you shouldn’t have to look up every third word on Urban Dictionary to know what a band was singing about), and preparing to rush the stage between acts and get in one song.
He knew how it would go. He’d leap up on stage with his iPhone. The audience would be momentarily confused. The manager would narrow his eyes, not quite sure where he remembered Chester from. Chester would pick up the microphone, which the opening act had left in place, and he’d say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Zany Chester! Thanks for coming out tonight! Does anyone remember George Michael?”
It wouldn’t matter if the audience cheered, shook their heads and shrugged, or failed to answer the question altogether. Chester would press play and the opening notes of “Faith” would fill the club. Everybody would immediately become fifteen to twenty percent happier; George Michael’s music did that. But the crowd would never suspect how much the threshold of their happiness could rise until he began to sing “Wraith.”
As he and George Michael sang the first few words in perfect harmony the manager would realize who Chester was. His face would redden with fury, a red so bright that Chester could see it even in the dark club with stage lights shining in his eyes. The manager would frantically gesture to the bouncers. They would nod, and move forward, one headed toward each side of the stage. There’d be nowhere to run. Chester wouldn’t have much time. Ten seconds at the most, and he’d have to make every single one of those seconds count.
Maybe he’d wink at the manager. Maybe he wouldn’t. He hadn’t decided yet.
“ . . . if I could touch your birdie,” he’d sing.
The club-goers, expecting him to say “body,” would be taken aback. They’d thought this was a simple George Michael/Zany Chester duet, but no, it was something so much more. They were getting new lyrics. Witty lyrics. They were hearing one of the catchiest songs of all time but in a hilarious new way. “Weird Al” Yankovic, talented as he was, had never done a George Michael parody (“I Want Your Socks” was often incorrectly attributed to him), and his omission was what would catapult Chester to stardom.
With less than four seconds before the bouncers dragged him off the stage, Chester would know that he had to give it his all. This was the musical performance that would make or break his career. This was the moment that he would recall fondly, with a light chuckle, in each of the documentaries made about his life.
“I was wrong, obviously,” the manager would tell the camera. “How could I have known? How could any of us have known?”
Those four seconds would be astounding. The audience, expecting to hear “And I’ve got to think twice,” would laugh and gasp with delight when the lyric became, “And I’ve got head lice.”
That’s when the bouncers would clamp their hands on his shoulders.
He’d try to sing the next line, but they’d pull him away from the microphone. Though he had a powerful voice, the acoustics at The Shantyman weren’t good enough to compete with the laughs and gasps of the audience.
They’d boo as the bouncers dragged him away.
The manager would realize that they were booing the bouncers, not Zany Chester.
The manager would realize that he’d made a mistake.
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A terrible mistake.
Somebody up front would shout, “Let him play!” Others would join in. Soon the entire audience would be chanting “Let him play! Let him play! Let him play!”
The manager, flustered, would fire the bouncers on the spot. Then he’d walk up to the microphone, tug at his collar, and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m proud to present . . . Zany Chester!”
The crowd would go berserk with joy. Chester would tap his iPhone screen to start the song from the beginning. When he finished performing “Wraith,” the audience would demand another song, but he wouldn’t do it. Another band was waiting to go on. Cutting into their stage time would be tacky.
The manager would apologize to him. “I guess even I can still learn new things about this business,” he’d say. “I’d like you to be my next headliner.”
No, that was going too far.
“I’d like you to be my next opening act.”
Chester would accept his offer without a trace of bitterness. Because, yeah, people messed up. Numerous studios had turned down the chance to make E.T. The Extraterrestrial. Hell, ***&Ms had turned down the product placement offer, leaving Reese’s Pieces to swoop in and get the glory. Sometimes people simply made bad decisions. The job of the creative artist was to make them realize that they were wrong.
Boy, did this opening act suck.
Chester wasn’t nervous at all. He’d thought that he would be, but there was really only one way this could go. Adoration. And why should he be nervous about receiving adoration?
“Thanks for letting us party with you tonight,” said the front man of the opening act, after they finished a song about the number 420, the significance of which was baffling to Chester. April 20th, maybe? You shouldn’t have to be a calendar expert to enjoy a song.
Were they done?
“We’ve just got one more for you . . . ”
Dammit.
The opening act (Chester couldn’t remember their name, and they couldn’t be bothered to put a band logo on their drums; he certainly wasn’t going to wander over to their merch table to find out) went into their final song. He hoped it was short.