by Jack Wallen
“Honestly, you had trouble remembering the lyrics when you first started. Even once memory kicked in, your vocals were a bit off. In fact, Tony insisted you re-record everything you’d done since, well, since whatever happened happen to happen.”
Hearing Drew be Drew had my heart beating a bit stronger.
“I need to give those vocals a listen.” Without warning, I turned and entered the studio. The second I was within earshot of the control room, I shouted, “Tony!”
“What is it? You wanna slap me in the face or punch me in the junk?”
I had no idea from where the snark was coming, so I chose to ignore it. When I stepped into Tony’s domain, I sucked in a moist, BO-laced breath in an attempt to calm myself down.
“I need to hear my recordings, the ones that had issues.”
Tony shook his head; the turkey warbler flapping wildly beneath his chin. “Unless your ego is Jedi-strong, you really don’t want to hear those, Grog.”
“It is and I do. In fact, it’s the only thing of importance at the moment. So … play them, you must.”
“Seriously, Grog, it’s sub-par work on everyone’s part, including mine. No one wants to hear that.”
I slammed my fist down on Tony’s console. “Goddamn it, Tony! Spin up those takes. I want to hear them now.”
Tony turned his chair to face the console, wildly tapped a few buttons, and gave the volume a bit of a boost. Drew’s guitar bounced from the monitors, his usual perfection. What followed the intro dropped me to my knees. A banshee’s screech, vocal cords of rusted metal, rose in place of my voice. I covered my ears, to no avail; the sound pummeled my eardrums and begged my sanity, Come play.
“Turn it off!” I screamed over the horrific noise that was my dead twin sister’s voice.
“Holy hell, Grog, it’s not that bad,” Tony harrumphed.
With the sound muted, I manage to work my way back to standing. “Wait,” confusion reigned supreme in my head. “What did you hear?”
“You singing. That’s the cleaned-up version. The pre-mastered take had a strange static that I couldn’t track down.”
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled under my breath. Without a word, I slipped from the booth and met Drew in the hall.
“You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost, Grog. Oh yeah, you did. Sorry.”
“I know what she’s doing, Drew. That walking dead trollop is recording some sort of subliminal message into the vocals.”
“You mean like backward masking? The brainwashed do not know they are being brainwashed kind of shit?”
“If I’m correct, it’s much worse than that.”
“Grog, I’ve listened to the tracks and I’m fine.”
I wanted to believe Drew’s logic, but what I’d heard in the booth begged me and my opinion to differ. “What you’ve heard was the after effect of Tony’s filters”
“Then why hasn’t Tony lost his shit? I’m sure he’s listened to the isolated vocals enough to have been well under the thrall of your twin. Explain that.”
“I can’t.”
The head of steam I’d built was instantly deflated. In that moment, I transformed from rock star to schmuck. When Drew placed a warm hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my eyes, I lost it. “Fuck, Drew. I was so certain she’d done something sinister while she was…” I pulled back and wiped at the tears blurring my vision. “What if this was nothing but some fantastic delusion? Am I losing my mind?”
A gentle, affectionate laugh escaped Drew’s lips. “There’s no reason to go down that road. You may not have any proof it happened, but there’s no proof it didn’t. So, let’s assume this little Schrodinger’s mess is both alive and dead. That being the case, what do we do?”
Drew was right; there was no way to know if I’d experienced a shift in reality, a delusion of grand designs, or a terrible waking nightmare. This could even be the after-effects of The Dark Seduction, or even Vau-eal’s doing.
“We have a way of knowing,” Bella’s sweet voice interrupted the moment. I turned to see her and Dizzy standing in the hall. I hadn’t even realized they were listening in on our conversation. What had they heard? Judging from the looks on their faces, I could only assume everything.
I wiped away the hold-over tears. “I’m all ears.”
Dizzy stepped forward. “Once I have that ghost-hunting tech in my hands, I can film every waking moment of Grog’s. If something goes sketchy, the all-telling lens will see.”
“I thought you said—”
Dizzy stopped Drew short. “I said most of what they did was bogus. That camera, however, is the real deal. If anything funky goes down with Grog, I’ll know it in real time.”
“What are we waiting for then?” Drew fished his keys out and pointed toward the door. “Lead the way, my friend.”
On the way out, Drew made a pit stop at the booth to tell Tony we were going out for a group lunch. We all released a collective sigh of relief when the man didn’t either ask to go along or for us to serve as his personal delivery service.
Inside the relative safety of the car, Dizzy rattled off the location. Without hesitating, Drew calmly drove away.
“What happened to the rock star lifestyle, Drew?” Bella asked from the back seat.
A quick peek into the rearview mirror and Drew asked, “Is this on or off the record?”
“According to Gordon, everything is supposed to be on. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”
Drew’s white-knuckle grip eased on the steering wheel at hearing Bella’s answer. “Honestly, life happened. I grew up and realized the rock star life was for those who had too much cash and too much to prove. Now it’s all about the music. Everything I do, I do with the understanding that if it doesn’t move my skill or career forward, it doesn’t happen. So yeah, I drive the speed limit. If you have a problem with that, I might take off one of my sensible shoes and wallop you one good.”
A spot of laughter brought about a much-needed release. For a split second, I’d even forgotten about my evil twin.
“There it is,” Dizzy cried out from behind me. Drew gingerly pulled into a parking spot—his grandma-like speed and effort clearly an attempt to get another round of laughs—and shut off the car.
I spun in my seat and grabbed Dizzy’s arm. “You want to handle this alone, or should we tag along?”
Dizzy gave the question a bit of thought and eventually answered, “There’s safety in numbers.”
Without another word, we all exited the car and made our way to the dilapidated building that looked as if it could have, at one time, been an elementary school.
As soon as we stepped through the entrance, my assumption was made real. This was an abandoned school. Discarded books, discolored drawings, and dismembered toys were strewn about the hall. Near a broken drinking fountain, a box of crayons was scattered in a rainbow of memory. Before I could peel my gaze from the box, a disconcertingly large centipede crawled out and skittered off into the shadows.
“Is it just me,” Bella started, “or does this place have a decidedly Silent Hill feel to it?”
“Now that you mention it,” Drew responded, “good call. I would suggest, should ash start falling from the sky, we run. Just remember, I’m a bloody old man, so someone has to be slower than me, otherwise the monsters will have their nasty way with my body. We don’t want that.” Drew grabbed Dizzy by the arm. “Are you certain these people can be trusted?”
“Yeah. Don’t let appearances fool you. These guys are on the up and up. They work out of here because it’s all they can afford. Plus, they—and this is off the record—do a bit of b-roll filming here. That and the cheap rent always allowed them to spend what little they were making to keep the business afloat.”
“You mean the business of conning people?”
Drew shook his head at me. “Consider this one of those bite the hand that feeds you moments, Grog.”
I nodded. “In other words, keep my mouth shut?”
&nb
sp; “I wouldn’t use those exact words for fear of your boot finding its way up my arse, but yeah, in a sense.”
Dizzy pointed forward. “The office is at the end of this hallway.”
We made our way through the dimly lit space until Dizzy stopped before a door marked Paranormalcy. With a steady hand, he knocked. The door creaked open of its own volition.
“I swear, if a clown with a machete and a dildo nose jumps out, I’m going to crush every skull in the area,” Drew confessed his irrational fear of clowns.
Dildo nose? I mouthed.
My question was met with a shrug.
A voice from beyond the door beckoned us to come hither—not necessarily in those words. Dizzy gave us the OK and led us in.
Seated around a table was a small crew of men and women, each with what appeared to be a script in hand.
“Dizzle!” One of the gruffer men shouted as he stood and pulled Dizzy into a hug. “How in the fuck are you?”
“I’m good, Crider.”
Before Dizzy could speak another word, the man named Crider laid eyes on me and nearly tripped over his own legs in an attempt to reach my side.
“Holy mother of rock and roll … you’re—”
“I am … flattered that you recognize me.” My reaction was honest; it never ceased to amaze me when someone outside of the industry knew who I was. It was happening more often—a trend I hoped would continue, for the sake of the band—yet still it caught me by surprise.
“Now I know why you left Paranormalcy. Hell, I would have bailed on the company to film this band. Shit, I’d have bailed on my wife to…” A crooked grin etched across Crider’s mouth. “Where are my manners?” Crider turned to the table. “Gang, this is Grog and Drew, from Die So Fluid.”
A quick round of nods, waves, and hey there’s was bandied about.
Crider returned his attention back to Dizzy. “What brings you back to our little shithole, Dizzle?”
“I was hoping I could borrow the Spectral.”
A rousing guffaw escaped Crider’s mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding me? That’s our bread and butter, my friend.”
“We only need it for a short while and, well, it’s really important.”
Crider glanced between Dizzy and me, eventually bobbing his head in an almost yes fashion. “Important enough that it can be made into an episode?”
“No.” Dizzy instantly shut the conversation down. “That is not an option. They aren’t a freak show and don’t need that kind of PR.”
Hearing Dizzy defend the honor of DSF was heartwarming—and spot on. No way in hell I’d open our doors to what could possibly follow such a stunt. Not that I didn’t believe in the ethereal realms—hell, I was nearly in-corporealized myself. To attach the band to a show that attempted to profit from the spiritual wasn’t my cuppa.
Crider’s attitude grew noticeably defensive. Fortunately, Dizzy picked up on the shift.
“You know I’m not knocking what you do. I believe. But the band has a fan base from all walks of life. The last thing they need to do is send a portion of those fans packing.”
Crider nodded. “I get where you’re coming from … I really do. Thing is, we’re about ready to go into production and we need the Spectral.”
“Just give us three days,” Dizzy practically begged. “I promise you nothing will happen to the equipment. You know I’m good for it.”
Slowly, Crider’s resolve melted. “If I didn’t have a soft spot for you, Dizzle, this wouldn’t fly. But since I owe you big time … you can borrow the camera. Get that bad boy back to us in three days, or I’m coming after your ass. Understood?”
Dizzy grabbed Crider’s proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “I promise you, no more than three days.”
After receiving the camera, Drew and I offered up a few autographs before we made our exit from team Paranormalcy.
To my surprise, Bella wrapped her arm around my waist as if we’d been chums for years and asked, “What now?”
To my even greater surprise, the gesture brought me a level of comfort I hadn’t felt since I had Thessia to turn to. I leaned my head on the girl’s shoulder and said, “Lunch and then studio.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Drew cut in before opening the passenger side door for me. I offered up a quick curtsey and slipped into the seat.
Once Drew was in the car, he had it running and pulling into the street. As we drove, Dizzy unpacked the Spectral, switched it on, and pointed it my way.
“Anything?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“It’s just you at the moment.”
I released a stream of sighs from my lips. “Sweet, merciful Buddha.”
We swung by a local taco stand that promised Mexican Nirvana. I, of course, immediately pictured Cobain and Grohl in sombreros, performing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ in Spanish. “Me siento estúpido y contagioso,” I mumbled, while banging my head, ever so slightly. Fortunately, no one caught my little teatro del absurdo.
“I cannot remember the last time I had a good taco,” Drew spoke through a mouthful of food.
“Where are your manners, Drew Richards?” I swatted at Drew’s hand.
“They jumped ship at the corner of Hangry and Kiss My Ass.” Drew shoved the final bite of his last taco into his gaping maw. “This shit is so good it makes me want to punch nuns.”
Drew’s statement hung in the air for a too-long period before he offered a wink and a laugh. “What happens if a nun eats one of these babies? Would she go all Evil Dead and start punching herself, or would her inclination be to seek out a fellow sister and then drop the hammer?”
No one laughed—at first. It took a moment for everyone to check their morals before each of us bust a figurative gut. The laughter eased up the remaining tension so we could all enjoy what was left of lunch. We each plowed through three tacos apiece—Drew going back for a second round, before making our return to the car. As an olive branch, I grabbed a quick six-pack of tacos for Tony. I figure anyone who spent that much time in a sound booth would happily accept an apology by way of chow.
As we made our way back to the studio, Dizzy fired up the Spectral a second time and pointed it directly at me. It took the kid mere seconds to offer up, “Still just Grog.”
“I hope you’re not expecting jazz hands from me at the moment,” I teased. “By day … just Grog? Did I lose my special along the way? Drew, please tell me my special is still intact.”
“Like a good Christian, my dear, your special is still very much intact.”
***
The studio was abuzz—not from the sound of amps prepped for the onslaught, but voices … and plenty of them. From the tenor and tone, we were about to walk into a heated argument.
In the hall outside the control room, Tony was facing down a group of young women and a car salesman of a gent with way too much gold around his neck.
I tossed caution into the shitstorm. “What’s going on?”
Tony spotted me and, to my surprise, his face lit up. “Thank God it’s you. Grog, I’d like to introduce you to D’Queen. Ladies, this is the woman whose time slot you are disputing.” Tony made to back down from the confrontation. “I’ll let you all handle this.”
Before Tony could make his exit, I pinched his left earlobe between my fingers and stopped him in his tracks. “I think you can stay around for our little discussion.” Out of pity, I released the engineer and turned my attention on the teenagers before me. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”
The escapee from the seventies opted to voice his take on the situation. “It seems our friend Tony double booked us.”
Tony did his best to interrupt. “I already told you—”
Disco Dan silenced Tony with a threateningly raised hand. “You told us nothing.”
I stretched out my Mexican olive branch to Tony. “Why don’t we let the man talk.”
“Did you hear what I just said?” Disco Dan prepped for mansplaining.
I faced
the one who had to be the girls’ manager. “Are you the male role model you want your girls there to see? Or do you get off bullying others? Let the man in charge of the studio speak his piece. If you don’t like what he has to say, then you and I will toss down the gauntlets. M’kay?”
My sass had the effect of silencing the pinky-ringed man.
Tony gave a quick peek into the carry-out bag, offered me up a mouthed thank you, and proceed to finally explain himself. “As I was trying to say, Franko…”
Why did that name not surprise me?
“I can show you my calendar. Your girls are slated for three o’clock. It’s currently one o’clock. There is nothing in the contract specifying they needed any time other than what was allotted. Besides, Die So Fluid has the studio for another two hours. Their time is paid in full. As for D’Queen, you have only offered up a deposit. The Red Rocker once said, Suckers walk.”
“In other words,” Franko started before I opted to cut him off.
“In other words, your girls are welcome to watch and learn how to rock.”
D’Queen shocked me with a bit of elation at the idea of watching me do my thing. I could only assume, with the name D’Queen, the girls were either pop or R&B, so why would they have any interest in watching the front woman for a rock band lay down a track or two?
One of the girls caught the curious vibe emanating from me and smiled. “Have you ever heard of Baby Metal?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“We’re the American version—”
Franko cut the young girl short. “How many times have I told you, they are the Japanese version of D’Queen.”
I had to confess, I wasn’t a big fan of how Franko treated his girls. Before he had the opportunity to go truly aggro on his wards, I gestured for them to follow me. “Why don’t you girls join me in the vocal booth, so you can see how my sausage is made.”
That came out all sorts of wrong.
“Let me retract that statement.”
One of the girls giggled. “We know what you mean.”
“It’s about time someone did.” I laughed alongside the girls and called out over my shoulder, “Tony, cue up “Uncomplicated”, so I can knock that baby out of the park.”
