“And that right there goes out to all the punks running down those long mean streets. ‘Twas a little ditty called ‘Stormtroopin!’ No guesses who we’re rapping about on that. I’d tell you the artist, but someone scrubbed the labels off the 45s. More killer shit like that from KXOB, live in the heart of Haven, with our megablock of classic rock.” It was a voice that could’ve sang on the platters he played, that’s how full and smooth the black wolf’s was, a stark contrast to his spindly frame, but a perfect match for those soulful green eyes.
He punched his mic’s mute button and sent out the next half-hour. The DJ kicked his legs up on the desk and took a long drag off his silver cigarette. Old World pinups and band posters festooned the small gray room, lit only by his one screen and the lights of the vintage console. He smiled at every one of his fine wolven women, and saluted the frozen, frenzied faces of killer musicians live on stage, all through the smoky haze.
His name; unimportant, even to himself. The only thing that mattered was keeping the music going, and the signal clear so all the hounds crazy enough to own a ham-radio in Haven were getting their money’s worth.
Then came a knock on the door.
Out came the DJ’s silver automatic. He wrapped his plaid flannel jacket around it, sure the same trick was being pulled on him. He’d had his bomb threats, his rough-ups, was almost rundown in the street. He blamed the Board for all the trouble. There was a strange part of him that felt the mother-brain running this den of digital sin couldn’t care less what he was playing, but the politician mindset was a whole other story. After all, the right idea at the right time could end careers, and we can’t have that, not when purpose is already in short supply.
He cocked an ear and pressed it to the door…nothing. No heavy breathers, no hitmen mumblings (they were getting sloppier by the day), not a drop of sound beyond the thunderous riffs flying through the air to all his listeners out in Radioland. He glanced through the peephole on the door, hesitant at first (saw someone get a slug in the eye this way), but soon it was safe to look.
Whoever had knocked was gone, and had slipped him an envelope beneath the door. A rather big one at that. The DJ had seen that trick before too; meant fumigate the office the second you open this. With the long, thin blade of his stiletto knife, he slid the top corner of the envelope back under the door. With a careful flick towards the hallway, he waited for the anthrax, the gas pellet, or whatever the hell the dear statesmen had tried throwing at him this time.
He waited for a hiss, a wisp, the odor to come in on a back draft, but the only thing it smelled of was “old.” The smell of his vinyl sleeves at the apartment, of the jukebox joints he bought them from. Musta been what record stores always have smelled like even when the wax was hot off the press.
“Shit man, the hell you lay on me?” the black wolf asked aloud, plucking up the white sleeve. When he finished opening it, all became crystal-clear. Someone had sent him an LP. And the note made it quite the special someone. The second the latest punk tune was finished, he faded the mix down and fired his mic on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a request. Scared the shit outta me getting here, and friendly reminder, reach me at the P2P, not at home. From a fella we’ll call L.F.G. If you know this Wasteland friend, then you’ll know he is ‘Screaming for Vengeance!’ And so are we on KXOB. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that on me again you sonofabitch.” Fortunately, all was smoothed out by the thunderous crunch of speeding twin guitars. At least his “assassin” had good taste.