by Erb, Thom
The air was crisp and small, glistening snowflakes greeted Tommy and the gang as the fought for purchase on the crunchy snow pile. The mid day sun crafted harsh angles that almost matched the frozen edges of hard pact snow as they ascended the “Mt. Olympus” as they called it. Tommy had forgotten his mittens that day, lost in a flurry of excitement at the thought of finally raising his arms in victory once he knocked all comers back down into the abyss from the snow mountain. That thought forced his rotund form up the hill faster than he ever thought possible.
“Must be the new helmet!” He thought and shoved Clayton away and crawled over Todd.
Tommy would not be denied.
The sun almost felt hot in the early January day. Beads of sweat rolled down Tommy’s red checks but he paid no heed to them or the numerous hands that pulled at him from below him on the icy snow mountain.
Tommy would not be denied.
He could see the very top of the Mt. Olympus and could taste victory. His heartbeat pounded and he could feel his pulse racing like Han Solo trying to set a new record for the Kessel Run. The sweat from his busy hair made his precious helmet slip. He grabbed it quickly to make sure it was still in place. It was. He smiled as he approached the apex of the wintery mountain. He would finally… at last... be King of the Mountain.
King of the Mountain. He pondered the significance. That would entail bragging rights until spring. Maybe even free ice cream sandwiches or even... dare he think it? Respect from Mr. White, the bullying gym teacher that Tommy thought that maybe, just maybe, with the help from his new miracle United States Army helmet, he could smash, just as the Incredible Hulk would do.
“Bah, no time for that, dummy,” Tommy, thought as his sweaty hand found purchase on the top of the mountain. He let out a giggle.
Tommy would not be denied.
His giggle was cut short by a large shadow.
Too early for sundown. Tommy thought
No lunar eclipse scheduled… He continued.
What could it be? He reached the peak of the snowy mountain and stood up. He wasn’t alone on Mt. Olympus. A large figure loomed before him, as he straightened himself and adjusted his crooked helmet on his wet head.
His breath caught in his throat as he recognized the shape before him.
Murrie Spencer…his nemesis. His Joker to his Batman…the Jabba the Hutt to his Han Solo. Sweat now came down in buckets and soaked through his clothes and his snow pants and jacket. He couldn’t breathe.
“Hey there Erbie,” Murrie’s booming voice filled Tommy’s ears. The rest of the world fell away. The bright sun was replaced by dark storm clouds and Tommy could see his breath freeze in mid-air and hang there like a long snow shelf.
Tommy tried to speak but it only came out in a sad, exasperated whimper. That just made the big bully belly laugh as he sneered down at Tommy’s shaking form
“What have we here Erbie? Looks like Santa brought me a nice, new shinny United States Army helmet,” Murrie chortled as he snatched the helmet from Tommy’s cowering head.
“I think it looks better on my Erbie, whaddya say?” Murrie continued to laugh as he placed the shinny helmet over his reddish- brown hair.
“It’s…m…mine, give…it,” Tommy lunged for the helmet and missed.
“Oh, not anymore Erbie,” Murrie grabbed Tommy by the shoulder and shoved him down Mt. Olympus with an easy motion. The sky and world became a blur to Tommy as he tumbled and rolled down the hill and slammed into the frozen chain link fence of the baseball backstop.
He rolled over, glared back up the snowy hill, and saw Murrie Spencer hoisting the official Replica United States Army Helmet high into the air, as the world came back and the bright sun returned. He could hear his friends yelling and screaming and the Murrie’s booming laughter filled his ears once again.
Murrie stared down at him and his face broke into a wide smile as he dropped the official Replica United States Army Helmet to the snow mound. The big bully lifted his large foot and peered down onto Tommy’s crumpled body.
“Merry Christmas Erbie!” He bellowed and stomped on the green helmet, smashing it into a million pieces.
Tommy was denied.
August 16, 1977
(The Death and Birth of the King)
August 16, 1977
(The Death and Birth of the King)
Make the World Go Away
The young boy sat cross-legged on his cramped bedroom floor with a happy smile on his distorted face. He had been born with a cleft pallet and a left eye extruding enough that it seemed like it would pop out at any given moment and bounce off his blotchy cheek. The small room walls splattered with posters of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Buddy Holly and all other manner of rock n’ roll royalty. However, the most precious, moldy real estate was reserved for his favorite – The King. The comfort of soft scratching of needle on vinyl filled his happy ears. Elvis crooned, lamenting the dark life of living in the ghetto.
He sat surrounded by stacks of record albums, high enough they almost touched the yellowing ceiling. The colorful albums created castle walls of vinyl and he was king within the sonic sanctuary. The only things his long dead mother left him were her massive record collection and his best friend – the Stereophonic Music Master 1000. They offered sweet sounds and audible promises of a better place where he wasn’t different and laughter was because of true happiness, not his dreaded deformities. Elvis and the Beatles offered him an endless ticket on a bus to a world where he wasn’t considered a monster when he went outside. That was if his Father allowed him to go outside. He knew the old drunk was embarrassed of him. He could live with that. What he was growing increasingly intolerant of was his ignorant Father’s hatred for the only thing that mattered to the young boy.
His love for music.
The old man never understood his “monster-son’s obsession with his bitch of a mother’s music” and his hatred for it all seeped incessantly from the old man’s beer-soaked pores. The bitter old man constantly tried to toss the young boy’s records into the dumpster behind their dilapidated tenement. The young boy had kept the stinky bastard at bay so far. He worried daily that there would come a time where he wouldn’t be able to stop his Father’s vile attempts. His large head throbbed with anger and his taught limbs twitched with anxiety at the thought.
“Over my dead body,” the young boy had repeated under his breath many times before until eventually falling asleep to the low tones of his own determined mantra. But today was a good day. The crotchety old man was a few blocks away at a bar; watching a Red Sox double header with his alcoholic, slack jawed beer buddies. That meant the young boy could sit in his room and not worry about being bothered. He could drink his grape Kool-Aid and raise the drawbridge to his cardboard and vinyl castle and lose himself in a symphonic euphoria.
The record collection was meticulously organized and he knew it by heart.
“What will it be today, Mom?” He asked into the thick air, fingering the collection and walking the perimeter of the room, sipping from his large plastic mug. The magical Stereophonic Music Master 1000 blasted Mother’s Little Helper as he continued his search for his next sonic salvation. He had no idea what time it was. The “E” section of the record collection blocked the only window, blotting out the light with it. He never cared much for time anyway. The ticks on the clock to a young boy essentially locked in his own bedroom didn’t hold a lot of merit. He measured time in the length of 45s and 78’s.
He walked the square of music, waiting for its usual Voice to speak to him. Waiting for musical inspiration. He’d grown close to the soothing Voice. It made his life bearable. Combine that with the record collection and player and the ever-present Voice completed his entire circle of friends. He grew more anxious and distraught as he walked while with the Voice was silent. His heart began to skip beats and sweat began to pour down his face. The Voice had never let him down. It had always kept him company. Had always told him what to listen to. There was
a time he thought it was his dead mother, but once he started reading the Bible and accepted Jesus on the throne of his heart, he realized that it would be painfully difficult for her to speak to him with being drawn and quartered in the fiery pits of Hell. Suicide was a sin, he knew that. And while he loved his mother; he knew it wasn’t her and that left him wondering the true source of the Voice.
The deafening silence of the missing Voice stole his breath. A bit of afternoon sun splintered underneath the bedroom door and the only sound in the dark room was the hiss and repetitive thump of the tone arm on the record player, waiting impatiently for its next selection.
“Oh my dear friend. Where did you go? Tell me. Please tell me what to play next.” The young boy pleaded, draining the remainder of his drink.
“Danny Boy...” The usually soothing Voice shouted into the young boy’s mind. He fell to the matted and stained shag-carpeted floor, dropping the cup and staring wide-eyed.
“Danny Boy…” the Voice kept repeating. The young boy jumped to his feet and ran to the exact spot where the album sat, jutting out bizarrely an inch beyond all the other records on the makeshift shelves. Waiting.
The young boy pulled the record from its jacket and placed it on the player. He carefully placed the Stone’s album back in its jacket and put it back in its correct spot on the shelf. The King began to sing sweetly of Danny Boy and the calling pipes. It felt good. It felt right to the young boy. He watched the vinyl spin around and closed his eyes, lost in the lilting chorus and tears surprised him as they raced down his clammy face.
An ear-splitting screech from the record needle filled the room and dropped him to his knees. The music died with it. The song stopped in mid-chorus, leaving only a painful ringing in his ears. What light was breaking underneath the door was blacked out as the young man’s body and soul jolted with unbelievable pain and sorrow.
It took a few pain-filled moments for him to shake his clear. The Voice was mumbling, but he couldn’t make out the jumbled words. He got to his feet. His knees shook like leaves on a tree, but he managed to keep his balance. The Voice was distant and speaking one word.
Murdered!
Murdered!
Murdered!
The word bore into his temples. He felt the word pulse through his defective body. It wouldn’t be denied.
The Voice suddenly fell silent as a pounding came at the door.
The door kicked open and the young boy’s Father staggered into the doorway. A large bottle of Vodka hung slack in one hand, in the other a burning cigarette.
“Well, well Mama’s boy, I got sum news fer ya.” The slurring was hard to decipher but the young boy had gotten proficient in drunkenese.
The young boy recoiled against the far wall of records, spreading his arms out, covering them.
“Yer gonna love this ya lil’ tittie baby.” The Father pointed at his startled son.
“Leave mm-me alone.” The young boy’s voice came out garbled and weak.
“Shut the hell up ya little freak. This is my house and I’m tired of takin’ cer’ of yer sorry ass. You gonna love to hear that yer prec’us King, Elvis is fuckin’ dead! How ya feel ‘bout that huh?” His Father staggered like a zombie into the bedroom, grabbing the record shelf for balance. He chortled and took a swig from the bottle and let the brown liquid pour down the front of his already stained, white t-shirt.
“Wha…what? NO!” The young boy’s mumble exploded into a shriek.
“Oh, you bet your sorry little ass. The piece shit, popped too many pills ‘n they found ‘em dead as a door nail on the shitter. All hail the mighty King!” The drunk laughed and grabbed the record shelf and pulled it down, sending the entire wall of vinyl crashing onto the floor.
“STOP!” The young boy screeched.
“I’m tired of all this shit music n’ all this…this hero worship shit, I’m gonna smash these fuckin’ records. It done didn’t stop yer whore of a mother from killin’ herself and I’m done had it with yer shit too! There ALL fuckin’ outta here ya hear me boy?” The Father said and started to stomp on all the records, now spread out in the floor.
“Papa, NO!” The young boy leapt down on top of the shattered vinyl.
The Father yanked the young boy back by his long brown hair, then tossed him against the right wall – causing the shelves to cave under the attack, sending its contents spilling onto the floor. Joining the other crushed remnants of his mother’s precious collection.
The young boy’s hysterical torrent of tears soaked the once beautiful artwork of Janis Joplin’s Pearl. When he rolled over, whole chunks of soggy, colorful cardboard came up with his cheek. He stared up at his lilting Father with a burning hatred that filled every inch of his frail body.
“Now, don’t ya look ‘et me like that, ya lil’ shit. Stop yer damn cryin’ ya big pussy. I’m gonna give ya som’n to cry about!” The Father kicked his sprawled son in the ribs and stepped over him to assault the final wall of useless records. He tripped over the Stereophonic Music Master 1000, causing him to drop his bottle.
“Motherfucker!” He caught his balance and stared down at the silent record player. “Goddamn tired of this piesh a shhhit blaring that shit all hoursss u the damn, night.” He stomped down with all the weight of his steel-toed Wolverine work boot and made short work of the old tone arm cobra. Dozens of pieces of plastic, metal and vinyl filled the air, as the young boy tried to stop his drunken old man but his body refused his respond.
The Father stared down at the young boy and jerked back in a belly laugh. He then caught himself from falling and remembered his Fatherly job wasn’t yet complete. He spit a huge snot-filled gob onto what remained of the record player, then smiled. He fell into the last shelf and pulled out the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, shot his frozen son a look of disdain and disgust, and held it out for him to see.
“See, thessse damn hippies and stoners are pure evil ya dum sumbitch.” He looked at the cover and shook his sweat-covered face. “Goddamn garbage n’ ya can bet yer boney little ass that these losers’ll prolly join that fat ass Presley in Hell befur to lung. Ya can bet yer fuck’ed up fachhe.” He knelt down, pulling the record from its sleeve and smiled wide. His yellow and black teeth smelled as bad as they looked.
“This shit right her isssh the damn, reason yer Mama put a bullet into her damn brainpan. Brainwashin’ bullshit from fake ass rich bassstards, that just smoke refer, snort cocaine n shoot all that oth’r shit.” The young boy jerked his head away from his teetering Father.
Don’t let him get away with this Graham. Irreprehensible, jealous sycophants like your Father are responsible for my death as well as many others. You MUST stop him! The Voice returned with a deafening blast. It startled the young boy for it never had used his name before.
“Don’t turn away from me boy. Ya gotta see this. I’m a gonna make ya a damn man…even if it kills me.” The Father smashed the record over his son’s head and laughed. He fell down on one knee, still laughing, holding the shards of the album in his hand.
It is time to act Graham. Stop his abuse. The Voice commanded and the young boy felt the words in his heart. They felt…True and righteous.
“Guess I’m gonna have to just start usin’ my fists on ya boy, once I done with all these goddamn’ records.” The Father’s laughter echoed inside the destroyed castle walls as he stood up and loomed over his prone son.
“But first, I need to drain the main vein. Ya don’t mind do ya boy?” The Father unzipped his dirty work pants and yanked his pecker out and a golden flow of piss arced out and onto the pile of smashed records. The old man laughed and bounced up and down, turning it into a game as he tried to find an Elvis album. His mocking laughter echoed louder as he located the King’s Christmas record.
“Hot damn, that wass, yer Mama’s favorite. This one’s fer you Peggy Sue.” Urine splattered on the young face of Elvis, soaking it through. The old man ran out of piss, zipped up, then turned for the door.
<
br /> Ya better have all thisss sshit picked up by the time I get back. If ya don’t, ya might wanna go look fer yer bitch of a mamma’s gun.” The Father laughed again, kicked the young boy in the thigh, and then stumbled out the door.
The only light was coming from the kitchen windows.
The old man was heading for a cold beer.
Anger sprang through Graham and he felt as if he were about to explode. He felt a renewed strength overtake him. Every muscle in his thin body tightened. It felt like a thousand volts were pulsing through him and the Voice urged him on.
It ends today Graham. It ends NOW!
Graham’s usually trembling hand, now filled with vibrant energy. He snatched up the bottle of whiskey and he leapt to his feet. He had never felt this invigorated or so…alive. He liked it. He loved it.
The Voice was right. It ALL ends NOW!
DO IT!
He bolted towards the old man who was hunched over inside the fridge. The drunk must have heard the floor creak, because he turned around in time to see the Mr. Boston bottle as it came crashing down upon his head.
Shards of glass sliced into the Father’s forehead and one large piece popped his left eye like a ripe tomato. He fell to the floor in a heap.
“Wha…wha...the fuc…I kill ya…bast...” The Father grabbed at his eye as a ribbon of blood flowed from it.
“End it Graham. End it now…my Avenger!” The Voice rang in the young boy’s mind.
“You will never hurt anyone ever again!” Graham held the jagged neck of the bottle in his blood slathered hand. With one wide eye, and a deformed smile, he spent the next nine hours slicing and dissecting his Father. Whom he let linger on the doorway to death just so his Father could fully experience the pain that he’d put him through for all these dark and sorrow filled ten years. When Graham was finished, a thick layer of blood covered the old wooden floor. The room smelled of copper, feces…