“Did you say ‘set the piano on fire’?”
“Too crazy?”
“No. I was just thinking that with a name like 88 Bullets, there should be like—bullets?”
“It’s a metaphor, dude. Every string is a bullet.”
Fuzzlow rubbed his bearded chin. “Then let’s put a firecracker on each one, so when the flames hit—BLAMMO!”
“I love it!” She clapped her hands. “I knew I had the right guy for this job. Engineer this project for me, and then we send you and your friend Batalla on tour, okay?”
“Ha! You want to pimp us out to pay for your piano massacre?”
“Pay?” She lit a stolen cigarette. “Who said anything about paying for any of this?”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
2029.
“And it was a beautiful fuckin’ album, too.”
“Awww! Thank you, Fuzzynuts! It wouldn’t have been shit without you.”
“I don’t know. I think you could turn on the whole System with nothing but a piano and a mic.”
“Fuck yeah, homie.” They bumped fists. “And you know what? I turned on some Soviet space monkeys yesterday with nothing but my boobs and a magical object we found in space.”
“You did what?”
“Plutonian helped, obviously. He had Russian folk music on deck.”
“Bloody oath,” said Celina. “I can’t even keep up with you anymore.”
“Shit’s moving fast.” Mags gestured to Donny for another beer. “It’s just like the 1940s all over again.” She chugged it all in one go.
“The 1940s?” Kaufman asked.
She wiped away the foam with the back of her hand. “I never mentioned how long I’ve been around, have I?”
“Yeah,” said Donny. “Auntie Mags is fuckin’ ancient. It’s old news.”
“Donald!”
“If the boot fits, mosh in it. So what happened next?”
She opened her palm for another beer, waving her fingers. “You better have enough beers for this trip. Are we there yet?”
“Not quite,” Kaufman answered.
“Maybe,” said Celina, “we could skip the 40s and get back to the 78s. Why don’t I tell this one?”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
2026.
“These guys are awesome,” she said. “Where did you meet them?” Celina sat next to Meteor Mags at a table in Below the Belt Strip Club. Fuzzlow and Batalla had set up their equipment on stage at the far end of the runway where the club’s dancers usually performed. Between Fuzzlow’s beatbox skills and Batalla’s percussion, they sounded like a full band.
As the club cheered them on, Mags poured another round. “I put an ad on darkweb. Met a few people, and Fuzzlow and me really clicked on tunes. Plus, he’s an amazing musician.”
“Fuzzlow’s the one with the microphone?”
“Yep. He’s the guy who’s been helping me on my piano album.”
Celina’s eyes followed his every movement on stage. “I want him inside me.”
Mags nearly choked on her rum. “Damn, convict! Maybe you want to, like, talk to him first?”
“Sometimes I just know. How did you manage to totally fail at introducing me to him?”
“Hang out with us after the set. We’ll get a booth. I tell you, they have been tearing it up on this tour. Attendance was slow at first, but word got around.”
“People are starved for entertainment in the Belt.”
“No kidding. There’s nothing to do out here but slave in a mine. So now the guys are recording all the shows. Everyone wants a copy.”
Just then, one of the club’s regulars stepped up. “Heeeyyy,” he slurred over the music. He bumped the smuggler’s arm, swaying back and forth. “Hey, girl, how about a lap dance?” His fistful of cash waved in her face.
“Sod off, dickless.”
“Baby, chill, you know? Don’t you dance here?”
“Yeah, I bloody dance here. I dance on stage. And I break bones of anyone who tries to get on my shit, so sod off!”
The man’s sloppy smile turned sour. “You don’t have to be a bitch. I gotta lotta money, honey.”
Mags leapt to her feet and closed her fist around his throat. “Listen, you douchebag piece of—”
Slim suddenly arrived. “Meteor Mags! Is this guy bothering you?”
His gregarious smile pacified the rage inside her. “Slim, you old dog! Didn’t this creep get the memo about not hassling the dancers?”
“Sir, please do not hassle my dancers. Could I interest you in a free round of drinks at the bar?”
The man’s eyes bulged in their sockets. Struggling to breathe, he thrashed his head instead of nodding.
“My friend Mags is the solar system’s number one dancer,” Slim said happily. “She would appreciate it if you did not make her kill you while she enjoys the show.”
Mags released her grip. “Awww, Slim. You say the sweetest things!”
Slim accepted her kiss on his cheek then threw his arm around the gasping customer. “Come with me, pal. Drinks are on the house! Did I ever tell you about the time Mags and I saved a lake monster? No? Oh, she’s somethin’ else, my auntie.” His voice trailed off and got lost in the music as they walked to the bar.
Mags brushed her bangs back from her face and sat down. “Probably slip him a mickey so he can sleep it off in a booth. I tell you, Celina. Some people just don’t appreciate the fine art of pole dancing.”
“What can you do? Anyway, tell me more about this Fuzzlow guy.”
As the two of them chatted, another man stood entranced at the edge of the stage. Bobbing his head, clutching an instrument case to his chest, he closed his eyes behind dark sunglasses.
At the next break between songs, he waved frantically at the band. When they ignored him, he shouted. “You guys are amazing! Let me play a number with you!”
Fuzzlow knelt at the edge of the stage to get down to eye level with him. “Look, mate. This isn’t a jam session. Why don’t you go have a drink or something?”
“Aw, man! Just one number! I brought my horn all the way from Apophis 9 just to blow a few choruses. I caught a bootleg on darkweb and you cats are totally killing it out here. You gotta give me one number, and if you aren’t feeling the vibe then—”
“Apophis 9?”
“Yeah, man! Do you know how hard it is to catch a ride off that rock?”
“I do. We can’t even get on that rock.”
“How am I supposed to jam with you cats when you won’t even visit?”
Fuzzlow studied him for a moment. “One more question. Beatles or Stones?”
“Man, fuck that white-bread shit. Death! Trane! Vernon Reid!”
Fuzzlow held out his hand. “Come on up, Shades. Or do you got a different handle?”
“Mr. Blistr,” he said, climbing up. “Man, this is so cool. I can’t tell you how much I—”
“Then don’t tell me. Get your axe in gear and prove you aren’t wasting my time! Are you electric?”
“Sure thing, man.”
Fuzzlow pointed to a box near a stage monitor. “Plug in there, mate. Straight to the P.A.”
Fuzzlow strolled over to Batalla and said something in his ear. With a flourish, the drummer laid into a swing beat in 5/4 time.
“We’re gonna do something a little different now,” Fuzzlow announced from center stage. He gestured at Mr. Blistr. “This guy thinks he can hang with Two Black Roses, so we’re gonna give him a shot. His name’s Blisters, and I hope to hell he knows he what he’s doing.” He sang the bassline to the Dave Brubeck Trio’s Take Five.
The electric sax launched into Paul Desmond’s signature melody. Fuzzlow gave him a sign to keep going. As he played, Mr. Blistr adjusted dials on the bell of his tenor. Waves of wild harmony poured out, surprising even Fuzzlow. The beatbox artist pressed a pedal with his foot, and soon his vocalese imitated a distorted guitar.
Batalla kept the odd meter but changed it into an aggressive metal beat.
Riffing along with him, Fuzzlow sounded like a Les Paul run through a Big Muff and a Marshall amp. In response, Blistr drenched the onslaught with a flurry of arpeggios ornamented by low honks and piercing squeals.
Back at their table, Mags and Celina sat riveted to the noise.
“What in the actual fuck?” Mags asked in awe.
“It’s like some kind of heavy-metal free-jazz thing up there.”
“Who is this guy?”
“I don’t know, but he’s blowing my mind.” Celina slammed a shot of rum. “Come on, wagtail! Let’s shake it!”
A pair of dancers wiggled and writhed on stage, one on each side of the band. One of them spotted Mags and Celina on the dance floor. She abandoned her punk-rock go-go routine, jumped down from the stage, and joined her friends from Vesta.
“Tinta!” Mags exclaimed. She wrapped the younger woman in a bear hug. “You look great up there!”
Tinta kissed her cheek. Over the music, she shouted, “Look at my new piece!” She proudly displayed her lower left arm, completely covered in colorful ink. Her tattoos portrayed a woman enjoying cunnilingus from an octopus whose tentacles cradled her breasts. Around them, stylized waves crashed in whorls and eddies of permanent foam.
Celina admired the work. “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife,” she said loudly. “That’s amazing work!”
“Thanks! I did it myself.”
“So talented,” said Mags, beaming with pride. “When are you opening your own shop?”
“I’m saving up for it right now!”
“Wooot!” Celina shouted. She bumped her hip into Tinta, who bumped back. The infectious groove carried them away.
Over the next 87 minutes, Two Black Roses and the man with the horn took their improvisation through one style after another. They turned metal into funk, and funk into hip-hop. They drifted into the blues and reformed it into hard rock. To close out, they grooved on dub reggae.
Mr. Blistr and Fuzzlow took turns making psychedelic noises unlike anything Below the Belt had heard before. At the end, Batalla sampled them and set it on a loop. It echoed through the club and slowly faded out.
“That’s it for tonight,” Fuzzlow announced. “We’ll have a recording ready for you in just a few minutes, right next to the stage. Get it while it’s hot!”
Afterwards, the musicians gathered in a private booth. Celina slid in beside Fuzzlow. She whispered in his ear, and he smiled.
“You guys sounded great,” said Mags, pouring shots of rum for everyone. “Cheers!” Glasses clinked together.
Fuzzlow slid a fat roll of cash across the table. “Here’s the cut for the house.”
Mags waved the money away. “Don’t sweat it. I already got Slim covered for the night.”
“You sure?”
“While you were doing soundcheck, I hooked up two wankers from Ceres with four crates of Vodka and Russian fags. Consider it our little bonus for the evening.”
He drew the cash back across the table. “Who the hell smokes Russian cigarettes anymore?”
She shrugged. “It takes all kinds!” She pulled a pack out of her bra, smacked it against her palm, and drew out a cigarette with a hollow cardboard tip for a filter. “Some people are just degenerates, I guess.”
“Oooh,” said Mr. Blistr. “Can I get one of those?”
She held out the open pack for him. “Where you from, guy?”
“I been on Apophis 9, man.”
“I’m not a man. Are you a miner?”
“Yeah. No. Not really. Just a clerk in one of the offices. Or I was. I doubt my job will be there when I get back. I got hip to a recording of TBR and walked out the door!”
“Why don’t you stick around? You’ve got a great sound.”
Batalla spoke up. “He’s doing things with that horn like nobody else.”
“Damn right. Here, take this.” Fuzzlow held out the roll of bills to Mr. Blistr. “You earned it.”
And that was how the Psycho 78s first got together.
★ ○•♥•○ ★
2029.
“You really hit it off,” said Donny, cracking open another beer.
“At first,” said Mags. “I think Blistr was just too sensitive. The guys can be ruthless with their teasing, sometimes.”
“You don’t say.”
“Hey,” said Fuzzlow. “Don’t look at me.”
Mags looked at him. “It’s true. Batalla gave Blistr a pretty rough time on the last tour. Who knows? The lad was a snob about a few things, but he could play.”
“Batalla can be hard to read sometimes,” Donny said.
“Drummers are all crazy,” said Celina.
“Hey, convict! I play drums, too, you know.”
Celina looked her in the eyes. “That’s my point.”
Mags stuck out her tongue. She put her fingers in her ears and said, “I can’t hear you.”
Kaufman cringed at this display. Had he made a mistake bringing this drunken crew of criminals into a matter of life and death? “We’ll be coming up on Ceres shortly. Unless you would like to continue this daunting battle of wits.” With his foot, he slid a box across the floor. “I hope these uniforms fit you.”
“Aye, aye, Captain K-Ration!” She sprang to her feet. “Chief Weapons Inspector Meteor Mags, reporting for property damage! Major Calico, you know it’s time to go!”
“Catchy, wagtail. Is there an extra-large in there?”
PART THREE: THE STORM
Mags and her crew pulled on the uniforms.
“How do I look?” said Celina.
“Like the bloody enemy,” said Mags. “Locked, loaded, and ready to inspect the fuck out of some bad-ass guns. Here. Let me get your collar.” She smoothed it into place around Celina’s neck. She pressed down the pockets and made sure they snapped smartly.
Celina tugged here and there at the blue-grey pants. “K-man, don’t any of the sheilas in inspection have an arse?”
His eyes travelled up and down her body. “Not like yours.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Pick your jaw up off the floor and fly this thing.”
“We’ll be within hailing range in a few minutes,” he said. “Do try to be dressed by then. I can convince them this surprise inspection is legitimate, but they’ll want a visual confirmation, and it won’t do to have sloppy uniforms.”
Mags turned her attention to Donny. “Sweet Jesus on a pogo stick, Donald. Where did you learn to dress yourself?”
His shirt tails stuck out the back of his pants. In a matter of minutes, he had made his trousers look like he slept in them. “Sure. Let’s pick on the horn player again.”
“Pull your pants down and try again, Holmes.”
“That’s what she said.”
Mags slapped her palm against her forehead. “Why do I even try?” She gathered her long red hair into a ponytail and fastened it. “Patches, keep it down to a dull roar for a few. We have to look sharp.”
The cat plopped onto her side and purred loudly.
“She knows the shit is about to get real,” said Fuzzlow, “and she loves it.” He kissed Celina on the cheek and took his seat.
“Okay. It’s go time, everyone. Seats, please!” Kaufman picked up a microphone. “This is Chief Administrator Kaufman of the Port Authority to Piazzi Base, notifying of intent to land at Ceres Warehousing Center, von Zach Division.”
A moment later came the response. “Administrator Kaufman, sir? This is Lieutenant Spassky. It’s quite a surprise. We read you loud and clear, but we have nothing on radar. Please confirm.”
Kaufman cleared his throat. “I am piloting an experimental military craft. You won’t be able to read it.”
“Unable to read it, sir?”
“That is correct. This technology is the Port Authority’s new weapon in the war on smugglers like Meteor Mags. I believe you’ve heard of her?”
Spassky said nothing. After a moment, he replied “Our records say you are on holiday, sir.”
“Indeed. I
would much rather be with my son today, Lieutenant. But I have orders to inspect the shipment of rail guns you received today. My superiors noticed the re-routing, and they suspect foul play. Now, if you would please cease delaying my holiday more than necessary.”
“We need clearance codes and visual confirmation, sir.”
Kaufman typed on a screen and switched on a monitor. “I’m transmitting codes now. Please confirm.”
A haggard face filled the monitor. Its heavy eyes roamed over Kaufman’s politely smiling face then peered past his shoulders. Spassky saw the blue-grey caps and uniforms of an inspection crew. He frowned. “Administrator, I have crews on site that are more than capable of—”
“I am sure you do, Lieutenant. I vetted them myself. However, our superiors insisted I bring the best and brightest of my immediate staff. And so, I follow orders. I advise you do likewise.”
Spassky pursed his lips in disapproval, but he offered Kaufman a sharp salute. “Clearance codes confirmed, sir. Welcome back to Ceres.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I will be happy to show you the latest in stealth technology when we arrive. Kaufman out.” He switched off the monitor and the mic.
“Stickler for bloody protocol, isn’t he?” Celina said.
“And that,” said Kaufman, “is exactly why we will succeed.”
As they cruised over the edge of Ceresian civilization, Donny asked him, “What did you name your ship, anyway?”
“I haven’t decided. Any suggestions?”
“I got one,” said Donny. “The Motherfuckin’ Stealth Ninja!”
“Ninja are sooo twentieth century,” said Celina. “You need a piratey name. Like Bêlit!”
“Or Bêlit’s ship, the Tigress,” Mags purred. “Good choice, dear. I already have a name for my next ship, though. If we can’t fix up the Queen Anne after my little crash landing.” She wore a contented smile, and her eyes gleamed in the cabin light. “The Black Puma.”
“La Puma Negra,” Celina suggested.
Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition Page 47
