by Johnny Shaw
Louder crawled from the back into the passenger seat, snapping Kurt out of it.
“Thanks for coming along,” Kurt said. “Pepe doesn’t know better. For you—well, it’s a big deal. You got a life. Had a job.”
“Shut up,” Louder said. “You been thinking about songs?”
“I considered just taking some Slayer songs and replacing any mention of Satan with Jesus, but probably too loud and aggressive.”
“What about changing the lyrics to our songs,” Louder said. “We know how to play those.”
“Okay. ‘Berserker vs. Berserker.’” Kurt mouthed the lyrics to the first few stanzas to himself. “What if we change ‘barbarian warrior’ to ‘Jesus, our Savior’?”
Louder closed her eyes and bobbed her head. “Kind of grim. ‘Jesus, our Savior. Death close at hand. Jesus, our Savior. Blood on the land.’”
“Let me finish,” Kurt said. “‘Jesus, our Savior. More than a man. Jesus, our Savior. Blood of the lamb.’”
“You’re going to have to do somersaults for the next verse,” Louder said. “‘Vorpal sword of crucible steel. Gutting goblins and orcs with murderous zeal.’”
“Yeah, I’ll work on that,” Kurt said. “How many songs do we have in the Skinripper music vault?”
“Eight originals and four covers.”
“I might have something in the songs I’ve written over the last few months.”
“Those are all about watching movies and reading comic books.”
“But poignant,” Kurt said. “‘Requiem for Requiem for a Dream’ has depth. The chorus was ‘Hey, Mr. Selby? Why didn’t you tell me? That you wrote misery porn. Before I bought my frickin’ popcorn. I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself.’”
“Yeah, they’ll love it in the back pews. Uplifting.”
“It uses the phrase ‘ass to ass’ pretty liberally, though,” Kurt said. “I’d probably have to change that. Maybe ‘Mass to Mass’?”
Kurt, Louder, and Pepe walked into the stifling heat of the tiny Motel 6 room. They chucked their duffel bags on the floor. Louder worked on the air conditioner, pressing its buttons and banging on the side. It made some clicking and whirring sounds before a tiny bit of cool air escaped.
Pepe walked straight to the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind him.
“Did he lock the door?” Louder said. “That’s going to be contaminated for hours. I should have brought quarantine tape. Turn the fan on, Pepe.”
“It’s broke!” Pepe shouted through the door. “It made sparks.”
Kurt looked at the two small twin beds. “I’ll hit the floor. You two take the beds.”
“The floor is filthy,” Louder said. “You’d have to add dirt to make it cleaner. Share with me.”
“Or I can bunk with Pepe?”
“The bed would collapse. Don’t be a dumbass.”
Kurt later tried to convince himself that it was Pepe’s snoring that had kept him awake all night, but there was something about being in the bed next to Louder that made him feel weird and nervous. He looked at the back of her head for a long time until he felt even weirder.
He’d had a crush on her since they were kids. Their becoming best friends didn’t take the crush away. It only became more critical that he didn’t say anything. Louder was the most important person in his life.
Kurt smiled and started to drift off, but Pepe’s snoring hit a crescendo loud enough to set off a car alarm. Kurt grabbed his notebook and played around with lyrics. He would get some sleep in the van.
CHAPTER 24
The vein on Thrace McCormick’s forehead pulsed violently. It looked like an earthworm attempting to wriggle under his hairline.
The prayer room of the church had been converted into a makeshift war room. The closed meeting included the principal leads on the tour—including Axel, a half dozen of the 300, and the Young Lions’ manager. Thrace had not informed Virginia about the meeting, but Axel made sure she knew. The look on McCormick’s face when she walked into the room was priceless.
The band manager calmly conveyed to the room that the band had made a decision to cancel the remainder of their contribution to the tour, enter rehab for drugs and sex addiction, and get back to their relationship with God.
“Prostitutes and ecstasy,” McCormick said. “Which I’m told is a drug, correct?”
“Yes, MDMA or molly,” the manager said. “The devil is everywhere.”
“Does Brother Floom know anything about this?”
“No,” the manager said.
“Small victories,” McCormick said. “Make sure he doesn’t. No point in upsetting him.”
“I agree,” Virginia said, obviously not used to being on the same side as McCormick.
“Thank you, Virginia,” McCormick said. “Glad you could make it. I would propose that the band delays their rehabilitation and continues the tour under our watchful eye. My men can be present at all times to ensure that they resist all temptations.”
The members of the 300 nodded in agreement.
“It seems that there is a video,” the manager said. “There is nudity. It is, at present, unsecured. Your ministry would not want to be associated with its content.”
“We have a sermon tonight,” McCormick said. “Brother Floom relies on the music. For energy and for time. He can no longer preach for three hours.”
“Cancel tonight, for sure,” Virginia said. Every head turned toward her. “In fact, you should cancel the tour.”
Thrace brushed away the idea with his hand. “Not an option. We will return to the classic revival. Old-fashioned hymns. Retro, as they say.”
“You could get another band,” Axel said. He had created this moment. He had better nail it.
“Bands book months, even years, in advance,” McCormick said. “At least, the bands that we’re interested in. If I wanted your uninformed opinion, I would have solicited it.”
“In my former profession,” Axel said, “I used to book bands. I can make a few phone calls. Call in some favors. I might be able to get someone by Bogalusa.”
“I still propose that we cancel the tour,” Virginia said.
McCormick stared at Axel. “Make your calls. However, nobody performs without my approval. I don’t want you trying to give some relative their big break. I want to see a professional looking and sounding band. I want to hear upbeat. I want to see upright. I want to feel uplifting.”
“The three ups. Everyone knows those. Got it.”
They tried the old hymns that night. The strategy had not proved popular. It made everyone in the church feel like they were at church. The whole point of Brother Floom and the revival was to make it fun and big and entertaining. An extended Sunday sermon was not going to cut it.
The stage was set for the band to join the tour in Bogalusa. Three hours before their audition, Axel met Kurt, Louder, and Pepe on the outskirts of town, in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station.
“It’s all set up,” Axel said. “Three songs. That’s what you’re going to get.”
“We’re ready,” Kurt said. “Tired, but ready. I think.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Axel said, pointing at the side of the van with the image of Bloodface and the word “Skinripper” written above it. “This can’t be here. You have to lose that.”
“That’s art, man,” Pepe said.
“It’s hideous and demonic and no damn way,” Axel said.
“We’ll take care of it,” Kurt said. “Sorry, Pepe.”
“Aw, man,” Pepe said. “I love Bloodface.”
“Cover it up,” Axel said. “Or paint over it. Get rid of it.”
“I don’t have enough paint,” Pepe said, “but I can maybe modify it.”
“Get paint,” Axel said. “You have a zombie monster creature on the side of the van.”
“How about a Jesus?” Louder asked. “Jesus is like the mascot for Christians, right?”
“Jesus is not a mascot,” Kur
t said. “He’s the Lord and Savior.”
“Great,” Axel said. “Jesus is great. Just not that demon.”
“I could add a crown of thorns,” Pepe said, “clean up his face, give him a halo.”
“And the name,” Axel said. “Skinripper is out. You still need a new name. Maybe the Truthbadours, like troubadours, but with the word ‘truth.’”
“Christian bands have horrible names,” Kurt said. “It’s the only thing that’s consistent. Skillet, Flyleaf, Kutless, Pillar, but that’s too awful.”
“I’m not attached to it,” Axel said. “Spitballing.”
“That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard ever,” Louder said.
“Okay,” Axel said. “Take it easy.”
Kurt stared at the side of the van. He held up both hands and closed one eye. “I got it. Pep, paint out both sides of the word ‘Skinripper,’ leave the ‘I,’ ‘N,’ ‘R,’ and ‘I’ in the middle. That’s our new band name. INRI.”
“Should I know what that is?” Louder asked.
“It’s what Pilate nailed onto the cross,” Kurt said.
“Can you get it done in an hour or two?” Axel asked.
“If I hot box some weed,” Pepe said, clearly doing calculations in his head, “I can do it in an hour twenty, but I’m going to need you to get me three boxes of Little Debbies. Zebra Cakes definitely and any other two. Plus a gallon of Gatorade and some Twizzlers.”
“I’m not getting you any of those things,” Axel said. “Just paint the van.”
“It was worth a shot,” Pepe said.
An hour and a half later, the newly painted van pulled up outside the Bogalusa Freedom Church, a megachurch headed by Pastor Vic Profit.
The paint was still wet on the side of the van. Pepe’s new art wasn’t Axel’s ideal, but it would hopefully be Jesusy enough to pass muster. Axel could see what Pepe was going for, but it looked rushed, less like Christ and more like Zakk Wylde had gotten tuned up in a bar brawl.
Axel grabbed a seat next to Virginia, right behind Thrace McCormick and Vic Profit. He was nervous, but definitely not as nervous as Kurt, who was sweating through his clothes. He looked like he had just been baptized.
The band dressed conservatively, Kurt and Pepe in jeans and button-up shirts. Louder wore a long dress they had bought at a gas station. They had shown Axel some black tunics that had a goth Friar Tuck look to them, but he vetoed them as too Satanic-ritually.
Kurt walked to the microphone. “We are INRI. Thank you for the opportunity to let us perform for you today.”
Thrace McCormick loud-whispered to Vic Profit. “I have never seen a man sweat that much. He’s a husky one, isn’t he?”
Axel considered punching McCormick in the back of the head, but before he could make his decision, Virginia leaned toward Thrace. “The band went out of the way to be here. Show them some respect.”
McCormick didn’t respond, but Axel could see the back of his neck turning visibly redder.
Kurt walked to the amplifier, turned it up, and returned to the microphone. “This first song is called ‘Gestas, the Impenitent Thief.’” Facing the band, he said, “One, two. One, two, three, four.”
Loud did not adequately describe the volume that issued from the speakers. In the large auditorium, the sound of the guitar and drums had mass. The sound knocked Axel back in his seat. Heavy bass vibrated in the room. He felt like he was having a seizure.
Kurt growled out the lyrics.
Caught as thieves, but didn’t want to be famous.
The Gospel of Nicodemus is the one that would name us.
For what we did, we didn’t deserve to die.
Dismas repented, but I wouldn’t cry.
The forgiveness he asked for, I would deny.
The end of my life wouldn’t end with a lie.
Now I burn in the fires of hell and Dismas in Paradise.
If I did it again, I would think thrice.
I wouldn’t have mocked him, been evil and cold.
I wouldn’t have doubted, bought the heaven he sold.
If I’d only known it was for the fate of my soul,
I would have asked forgiveness, but still would have stole.
“Stop, stop, stop!” McCormick shouted, standing up and waving his arms.
Kurt gestured for Louder and Pepe to stop playing. The church felt twice as quiet after the onslaught of noise.
“Too loud,” McCormick said. “Very too loud. While I appreciate that you actually play your instruments, this is not a rock-and-roll concert.”
“We were told it was Christian rock,” Kurt said. “We put the emphasis on rock. There is a strong tradition from Stryper to Skillet of harder music.”
“A miscommunication,” McCormick said, glancing back at Axel. “Not your fault. It’s hard to find good people. To be clear, that’s not what we’re looking for.”
“Our mistake,” Kurt said. “My apologies. If you give me a better idea of what you’re looking for, I’m sure we can find the right rhythm—and volume—to fit your taste.”
“It has to have pep,” McCormick said. “Uplifting with pep. Can you do more than just stand there? The last band had choreographed dancing, which the audience found engaging. And rapping. As much as I abhor the sound of it—borderline blasphemous, if you ask me—the hip and hop speaks to the youths.”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “The hip and hop.”
“They can rap,” Axel said. “Can’t you?”
Kurt gave Axel a pleading look and turned back to Pepe and Louder.
“Not it,” Louder and Pepe said simultaneously.
Kurt turned back to McCormick. “It would be an honor for us to show our versatility. Keep in mind I will be freestyling, so it might be rough.”
“Don’t apologize before you perform. It lacks confidence.” McCormick sat down, looking at his watch. “Let’s get on with this.”
Axel said a small prayer. McCormick had no idea what good rap was, so it only had to be passable. It felt like that moment in 8 Mile. One shot, one opportunity. Maybe they would make a TV movie about this moment a decade from now.
Kurt carefully put his guitar in the guitar stand, buying time. He walked back to the center of the stage, pulled the microphone out of the stand, and moved the mike stand to the side. His mouth moved as he mumbled softly to himself.
“Is that one a Mexican of some kind?” McCormick said to Vic Profit in one of those whispers that was louder than his actual speaking voice.
“Give me a beat,” Kurt said, more a question than a statement.
Louder and Pepe did what he asked. They gave him a beat. Kurt stomped the stage, rolling his shoulders and gesticulating with his hand in a parody of a rap artist.
Yo. Yo. Yo. Yo.
Axel slunk down low in the pew and dug his hands into the wood seat. He felt like throwing up. His heart raced.
Jesus is Lord, and that’s both tight and dope.
My lyrics are cleaner than Ivory soap.
Lord and Savior, he be the King of Kings.
He’s more popular than Stranger Things.
On Netflix, yo. With Winona Ryder.
About a weird girl, some kids try to hide her.
It’s also got Matthew Modine as a special guest.
He was really good in the movie Vision Quest.
His character wrestles the champ, Brian Shute,
After losing tons of weight in a shiny sweat suit.
Axel coughed loudly. Kurt made eye contact with him. Axel shook his head. Kurt stalked the stage, trying to get back on track.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord.
God, God, God, God.
Our Father who art in heaven.
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done.
Kurt rapped the entire Lord’s Prayer. It worked better than Axel would have guessed. When he got to the end, he repeated the word “yo” about twenty times.
>
“I’m going to stop you there,” McCormick said, putting Kurt out of his misery.
The band stopped. Kurt breathed heavily into the mike. “I was almost to the good part.”
“I truly doubt that there was ever going to be a good part, son,” McCormick said. “That was awful.”
“What are you talking about, buddy?” a voice said from the back of the church. Everyone turned. Brother Tobin Floom walked down the aisle toward the stage. A couple of the 300 trailed behind. “The kid’s got enthusiasm. Passion. It was zippy.”
Virginia rose from her seat, scooted past Axel, and walked to her father. She whispered something to him, but he patted her head and smiled. “I’m fine, Tulip. Just fine.”
Reaching the stage, he held out a hand to Kurt. “The power of the Lord ran through you when you spoke in tongues at the end.”
Kurt leaned down and shook his grandfather’s hand. “Thanks. I improvised.”
“You remind me of someone,” Brother Floom said. “Have we met? My memory gets hazy.”
