IX. Two to Tango, Four to Shred
Alternatively: The Downsides of Financial Cannibalism
“Would ya quit dancing like the goddamn Peanuts and get off the fucking stage already!?”
It had been like this for HOURS. Hours that felt like days that felt like the crush of eternity. And all because my dumb ass couldn’t stop writing twin-guitar harmonies.
Harry Garret, alias “Richter” to both Hell Patrolman and rock-n-roller alike, has a natural gift for arrangement, a savant mutt if ever there was one. And when him and I get together on guitar and start writing songs like this, we sound like a twin ax attack. All killer until you realize ol’ Nic’s the bassist. The bassist who plays his bass like a guitar, but the bassist nonetheless. And so we wonder how we can play all this cool shit, and in comes Rory Armstrong, alias “Madskins” to Hell Patrolman and rock-n-roller alike, with the obvious answer: get a second guitarist.
I should have wrung the fucker’s white neck off his spine if I knew what auditions were gonna be like.
I had met Rory and Harry on the job. Crushing skulls, taking names, slaughtering the decidedly not-innocent, and just so happened to find myself in the company of heavy rock studs who could shred and slam with the best of ‘em. We all dug the same music, caught the same vibe, and thus your friendly-neighborhood heavy metal dispensary was born.
Little did I realize just what the Metröpolis name meant to cats in the Central Region when I got Doc’s Oasis booked for an entire day, guitarists lined up around the nonexistent block, and they all sucked sticky green.
One guy would have a killer guitar tone, but played like a methadone slug. One hound would have metronomic timing, but his guitar style is more fit for the corpse-paint crowd. One guy shows up in fucking leg warmers and Rory goes feral on his ass and chucks him back out the door on-site. On and on the carousel goes until everyone’s been gone through. And since we closed up Doc’s for the day, we didn’t have anywhere to drink that night. At least anywhere that doesn’t involve sad-sacking it to Bette Garret’s house, my one-story shack, or wherever the hell Rory lives.
Smart money says he’s the troll under the bridge.
We decided to swing by another solar joint we’d played at on one of our “tours.” I say in air quotes because a tour out here is like saying you’re going for a cross-country drive. This is all the country you got unless you wanna get eaten up by atomic goblins out east or Haven’s digital bitch out west.
Our hole-in-the-wall for the night was Melville’s. Whether for Herman or Jean-Pierre was anyone’s guess. And we got lucky too; it was a REAL night. No synthetic anything, just genuine spirits older than half your family tree. And man did we pound those shots down so fast you’d think we had just auditioned the Dover Boys. When we looked up from our alcohol-fueled haze, it was by our stars and/or garters (whatever the hell those may be) that we had finally found him, Compadre Numero Quatro.
He was an Indian wolf, and not just in breed. Brother wore some Navajo heritage on ‘em while playing down-and-dirty blues on a wood-paneled Strat, patterned with bear paws between the pickups. Had a head of hair halfway down to where a tail oughta be, a big brown suede jacket with fringes longer than mine, and a flat-top cowboy hat.
Best of all, this beige bastard could fucking SHRED. He was whipping through blues standards so fast you thought they stuck a time bomb to ‘em. Get done riffing on one, and then bam into the next. I don’t know how the hell he managed to go from “St. James Infirmary” to the Alan Firedale theme tune, but that was the bastard’s segueing prowess. And when he got to singing, he won the soul power lottery with a voice that flowed like honey.
Though the boys had to prop me up, we shook hands at the end of the set and introduced ourselves. He was much obliged and shared his name.
“Brett Tsé,” he smiled. “Last name means ‘rock.’”
“Ain’thatta–”
“Bit on the nose,” he chuckled. “You ain’t the first, and doubtless the last. But that’s what I was born with, so that’s what I was born for.”
“Feel like joining three crazies on stage every Saturday night?” Rory asked for me. Found out later that I was apparently in the blackout phase of the evening by then, humming old New Wave songs like a sloven British punk.
“I ain’t got too much going on tomorrow,” he nodded. “Just make sure your friend there has enough black coffee in him.”
Ever the diplomat, he shook the boy’s hands and mine, and I was carried to my truck, and left to rot. Or at least that’s what the fellas joked about afterwards. They knew I couldn’t have driven myself two feet when I get that plastered. And it was when I finally woke up with a splitting headache that I found our prospective recruit in a jam.
“That’s all my fucking tips asshole.” Brett snarled. “You think I like living out of my fucking pickup?”
“I thought you were good for the rest of the loan.” the shadowed figure sniped back.
“But I paid the whole fucking thing!”
“Nuh-uh.” came the smooth sing-song voice. “You forgot about interest.”
When I heard the fist hit his snout, I was wide awake. By the time my gun was in hand, the snap of a switchblade rang out across the desert. When I slapped the hand-crank to roll the window down, that bastard wrote his death warrant in seven sweet words.
“That pound of flesh looks awful tasty.”
When he heard me bellow “HELL PATROL ASSHOLE,” the thug spun round and I blew a hole clean through his head. I could see the moon on the other side before he dropped. Behind him was Brett, all shook up but no worse for wear.
“Thanks,” he sighed as I bolted for him. “That was the handyman though. And there’s more where he came from.”
“Whatcha borrow?” I asked.
“Couple hundred credits to get the truck running. Took a few month’s work gigging to pay ‘em back, but I did. Then they send this shit-bag to lean on me.”
“Cat gotta name?”
Brett went silent, slapping his cowboy hat back on.
“Man, I’m on the side of the law here, and we’s working to nail thugs that do this kinda shit.”
“Joan Bartholomew Wessing.” he sighed.
Well, been a hot second since I had to kill a bitch, let alone anyone walking around with a long-legged name like that, but I woulda slaughtered a zombie whorehouse if it meant keeping a talent like his safe.
“Make a report with me and Commish and we’ll get on it.”
He followed me to my one-story shack, and I got him laid up on a cot. “You got a rent-free room here, pal.” was my way of saying goodnight before I sauntered over to my bed and planted face-first into the mattress. 40 winks and a sore schnozz later, I was up and at it with Brett following me to Doc’s. Knowing the old goat and his long-standing status as a crack shot, he was the best witness protection we could ask for, and he had our fella hole-up in one of the spare motel rooms.
When I got the brief back from the Commissioner, and met up with Rory and Harry, turns out loans ain’t the only thing she’s a shark about.
“Dark tan wolf, 35, Joan Wessing has been known to EAT those who do not pay off their interest.” read Rory aloud. “Suspect in the deaths of at least five hounds found …well then. Sounds like Feral Fay’s got herself some competition.”
“Heaven help this bitch then,” Harry chuckled.
“And heaven help us if we don’t do the damn job right,” I barked. “Roll out gents! Time for a good old-fashioned hunt.”
Off went one truck, one rat rod, and one chopped hog, all hunting down dear Miss Wessing and her carnivorous loan scheme. She had the fluidity of a snake oil saleswoman, for there was no home address or business short of the far-off country of Winnebago. Fortunately, it wasn’t a Minnie Winnie she was palling around in.
The Brave this bitch drove you’d have to be blind to miss. It’s twice the size of a short bus (leave that joke on the table, folks; she’s an antique), the trademark W beneath the cab was painted red for the cheek of it, and everywhere it went, it always left the stench of scorched fur according to reports. If you’re wondering why we ain’t ever caught her before (besides the fact she does business in the north, and most them boys up north ain’t too right), two words, kids:
Flat. SIXTEEN.
Bitch cruised with an engine that shouldn’t even be in that S.O.B., and boy does it make the bastard boogie. Fortunately, a chase wasn’t the way things would have to go down. Something much more…bureaucratic.
Now you see, when we say “credits” out here in the desert, we ain’t talking Haven’s credit system. Haven don’t need money, so the apartment module spits out your daily allowance and you’re allowed to grab a few trivialities. You get to participate in the old rituals of buying shit without ever actually going into debt. Heard they used to do bonuses for folks who snitched on freedom fighters.
“Credits” out here is just bartering with a tab. You do something nice for a proprietor; supply utilities, fix up their truck, bust out some frankincense and myrrh for the baby Jesus, they give you credits. Means food, drinks, trinkets, what have you.
“Loaning” only makes sense if you’ve done someone a favor for no immediate pay and you come and collect. Wessing did the favor of hooking Bret up with the scrap needed to fix his pickup. Wessing takes care of the scavenger and Brett pays ‘er back in “tips.” And by tips I mean precious metals. Ol’ Man Godred did a lecture on this once, about how the coins of the Old World are worth more melting down than they are as a currency system. Started screaming about “Fiat” a lot afterwards, but I think he was just taking the piss out of someone’s Italian import.
Sure enough, after a few things of silver and gold come through in his gigging, he fulfills the arbitrary terms she set, but Wessing gets the hankering for more. And with no written agreements, no notaries, she starts leaning on the kid, expecting him to get showered in a king’s ransom every night.
The time it took me to explain all this was about the time it took for us to find her. We decided to drive north, seeing as the North Patrol were dumber than a box of pet rocks, and there we found her in a lawn-chair, sitting in front of the RV, getting her ring kissed like a mafia don. Middle of desert, no homes in sight, buncha cats bringing her offerings like a warrior queen, praying she doesn’t bed and breakfast them. And not gonna lie, she was a looker.
She had long legs to match the long name, and showed them well-off with a one piece black bathing suit, not that she had a lake to dive into. Musta been jonesing for those bronze coats you see surfers rock at the local wave pool. Thin strappy sandals and a good chunk of jewelry on her ankles and wrists showed where a lot of those coins were going.
I knew going in guns blazing would be the dumb move, so I had the boys hang back while I got in line. A nice, long line too, took me a quarter-hour before I could even see the bitch in my line of sight, and another quarter after that to finally stand before her. It was a miracle that the wire hadn’t melted, but I later found out that Harry was hearing every word of our conversation.
“I don’t recognize you on the list,” the tan wolf smiled with that oh-so office-girl chic voice. And we’re not talking Little Miss Penelope the secretary, we’re talking Monica the copyist-turned-mistress who the CEO is bending over the love seat and making spell “run” after hours.
“Friend of Brett’s, here to take care of the ‘interest,’” I said coolly.
She looked me all over. “I don’t see a nugget of gold on you, unless you keep spurs with those boots.”
“I was thinking less that,” I shrugged nonchalantly, “And more along the lines of something to please your…appetite.”
I was in my denim vest, so she got a good look at the black-furred beast before you. I was a little flabby in the six-pack because of all the twelve-packs I’d been crushing, but if she was smart, she’d know what I meant.
“He really mean that much to you?” she asked, puzzled.
“You can have me now or never.” I pressed.
She brought her sunglasses down to reveal something I kinda wish she hadn’t. Red eyes. Like Lita’s. Made the case a little more awkward than it was already gonna be. Felt like my back turned into a honeycomb with a dozen bees shredding the exits. The rush subsided once she dismissed everyone and escorted me into her mobile home, declaring “y’all get to live another day. Check the PDAs for the next rendezvous.”
What I was greeted by was a platinum silver abode, the bed and driver’s seat cushioned in crush velvet, and the cabinet doors and drawers given an obsidian gloss. There was no passenger seat, just a staircase down to the passenger-side door. Would be a helluva bus had it not been used for what it was used for. She took a seat behind the wheel and smiled. “Is it your thing too?”
“Honestly,” I chuckled nonchalantly, “I just couldn’t think of a better way to go.” A brilliant line coming from my dumb ass. I was about to rail a cannibal, and if I botched the basic instinct, I’d wind up lunch. And of course, doing it to her with those eyes wasn’t putting me on my game.
“Mind if I drive while we…seal the deal?” she asked, “I’ll make room for you.”
I’d done it with Lita before that way, so I nodded and swung the denim vest off my back. Wessing slid the driver’s seat back quite a ways, but still had enough tanned gam on her to slam the pedal to the floor.
The RV lurched forward and flung me back into the rear. Rory and Harry knew well-enough now was the time to tail ‘er, and tail they did, keeping a good quarter-mile distance between themselves and our perp.
“Not many like you come around,” the bronzed bitch smiled. “Brave blood always tastes the best.” She savored the flick of the switch that brought out her special assistant for the sordid affair. Turned out that she gored her prey on a four-pronged spinning blade that popped out the center-shaft of the steering wheel.
“Subtle.” I teased, burning alive in terror at the thought of getting skewered.
Yeah, didn’t think I could feel fear, did ya? Well shit man, when you’re taking down any thug, it could be your last. Won’t even be your own fault or theirs, something stupid will happen that gums the whole plan up. But here I was caged with the cougar who wants nothing more than my entrails lightly salted.
“Oh, the ladies I’ve tasted too on this,” she teased back, taking special care to shift up and flatten that throttle. “How you wanna go?”
“Well,” I sighed, strolling up to her with my vest off. “That depends how fast this thing can go.”
“Oooh, you really do know how to make a show of it.” Wessing smiled that peachy little smile. The spire spun round faster and faster as the RV gained speed. And all the while, she couldn’t take her eyes off me. Those goddamned red eyes were looking right at me. No care for what was on the road, no care for what was under her wheels, just my body and her eyes were all that mattered.
This was how we had her. Every time Harry and Rory bumped into the Winnebago, she couldn’t have given two shits. Whenever I said “Keep going,” they knew I was talking to them just as well as her. And man was she good about “keep going.” Each bump and bash set her further and further off the little straight line she made with her right hand at 2 O’Clock. The left hand was, shall we say, strumming her chords.
“You better look out, honey.” I growled playfully.
“Why?” she whispered in those strange, sultry tones, “What’s so good about out there when the best sight in the whole world’s right—”
CRASH!
The RV slammed face first into a rock formation. I was flung against the glove box while her head fell square on that spinning spire. She wouldn’t have felt a thing, just died with her claws out and whatever chicks call a hard-on. And of course, now I had the wonderful task of peeling her paw off the gas, climbing over her bronze back and kicking out the driver’s side window, the door to the minibus RV crushed against the corner we had boxed it into.
When I exited the RV, I looked like the belle of the bloodbath, though the denim vest went unstained.
“Jesus Christ.” muttered Rory. “That just you Speed!?”
“No, had a little help from a fine hot-rodder and a hog-rider.” came my bleary-eyed reply.
“What shall we do about this hunk?” Harry asked, idly popping shots along the side with his revolver.
I pointed at the mess of oil and gas bleeding from behind the caravan’s wheels. “Light a crack pipe, Richter, and watch ‘er burn.”
He did just that.
Still don’t know where he got the crack pipe, but the thing was dead the second the flames hit the fluid. Either way, it all made the nightly phone call with the old battle-axe a little less awkward. Turned out Lita had finally gotten her hound too, and it went about the same way I had gotten mine, just with a few extra steps. “Whatever it takes,” we chimed in unison, but man, that call went on for a lot longer than either of us planned, right till three in the damn morning. I think we needed it more than anything, so all’s well that ends well.
Before all that though, news of the racket’s end reached Commish, and more importantly, freed up Brett. Doc gave us the graveyard hour to jam with our new sideman and give him a good trial run, provided we closed up. We all got up on that polished wooden stage, got our amps rigged up, and then came that first round of awkward silence; what to choose. What to break this bastard in with?
“Whatchu thinking?” Rory asked Brett from behind his double-bass-drum behemoth. His white-furred hands twiddled the drum sticks while Harry’s brown digits noodled over his fret-board.
“You play metal, right?” the Navajo joe asked, slinging his Strat on.
“No flies on him,” Harry teased. “We play just about anything short of polka, black, and death.”
“He’s not a thrash fan.” Rory snickered.
The exchange got our beige blues-hound loosened up, and sure enough he gave us an answer. “If I drop a riff, will you pick it up? No matter what it is?”
I gave him a nod and struck a blow to my B string. “Ready when you are, Chief.”
“How many injun puns are you guys gonna play on me?” he chuckled.
“If you join this band,” I said, patting his back, “You’re gonna hear us call each other a helluva lot worse with a helluva lot more love.”
When he rewarded the gesture by making us work our asses off playing a marathon rendition of “Stargazer,” I knew he was Metröpolis material, a deal sweetened by his signal to throttle up for some speed metal, and the ringing thunder of priestly twin guitars echoing into the night.
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