Twin Paradox

by Purple Hazel

  There was no opening act with the Rudo Love Tour, by the way. No warm-up band. Fans bought expensive concert tickets to see the famous singing star—no one else—and that’s exactly what they got. Nothing less than the real thing.

  Well, sort of. It truly was Rudo Kachote, in person, singing those songs up there live. There was certainly no fraud being perpetrated on them, nor was it a studio recording they were listening to! But the woman they saw performing as Rudo Love...at the front of the stage...now that was a different story entirely. Not that anyone could tell. Rudo had taught her identical twin just what to do.

  “What…?” asked Shamiso tauntingly, provoking them further. Her voice was conversational in tone, but amplified via her microphone’s transmitter so it would quite literally bounce off the rafters and the walls, almost inciting the crowd to continue their wild yelling, clapping, and stomping.

  “Was that a yes…?” she further baited them, with only a slight tinge of humor in her voice. She spoke to them like she was challenging them...enticing them...beguiling them. Reality was, she was merely warming them up—warming up their vocal chords that is—for a very, very long night. “Well you’d better be!” she then clarified in a near-scream, “because we’re about to ROCK...THIS...PLACE!”

  The stage lamps immediately came on, and an explosion of colorful lights revealed her entire setup. Musicians were now visible who’d scurried to their posts in the darkness, grabbed up their instruments, and readied themselves. Backup dancers began slinking across the stage to join her. Meanwhile, the crowd erupted in cheers, anticipating the fulfillment of her boastful assurances. They screamed until they were hoarse.

  “God, it’s great to be back in Old Blighty!” she continued. “Now put your hands together!”...and when she said this, right on cue, her drummer began a brisk-paced drumbeat to give everyone a rhythm to follow with their clapping, hopping, and swaying.

  Confident in her stage show by now, after eight successful performances in cities like Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Rome, Amsterdam, and Madrid, Shamiso held out her hands, nodding knowingly, and curled up her fingers repeatedly as if to say, come and get it. The audience ceremoniously accepted that invitation, embracing her emotionally before she’d sung one note—which she never would, naturally. That, of course, was done by someone else.

  Indeed, as only she and two other people knew for certain (three actually, when counting the spy embedded in her stage crew by Space Command), the real singing was done by none other than the pop diva herself. The real Rudo. And her location back behind the band and slightly off to the corner was Neville’s brilliant tactic to make sure she could see everything and take cues off her much younger-looking sister during songs.

  For it was Shamiso who did the active performing: the dancing, the crowd interactions, the undulating, sexy moves in spike heels that Rudo wouldn’t dare try wearing anymore. Meanwhile, her famous twin sister merely stood, or occasionally seated herself on a barstool, while singing all those famous songs that had made “Rudo Love” an international superstar.

  Shamiso walked up to the very front of the stage, focusing on her walk to make it more fierce and seductive, then out onto a catwalk which led into the crowd about twenty meters or so. It was about ten meters wide, too, so if she remained dead center, no one could reach her. Yellow-vested security personnel occupied posts every few meters along the perimeter of it to make sure fans didn’t ascend it, lest they be stunned with electric-shock wands.

  “Let me see you out there! Come on slappers! Get those hands over your heads!” Shamiso now bellowed out across the undulating throng. And with that, spotlights began swirling around the crowd, lighting up swarms of bodies, clapping to the beat of the drummer and hopping about madly. Cueing up the band with a prearranged signal, Shamiso then launched into her oldest (well, that is, her sister’s oldest) hit song, “Kiss Kiss Love”. A swirling motion with her index finger was plenty to let them know to begin coming in on the next downbeat.

  The crowd subsequently went wild when they recognized the melody, and after several bars of music, her sister, Rudo, began singing the song while Shamiso lip-synced. Walled off by a rack of electric keyboards and synthesizers, Rudo Kachote wore a headset to sing into, but could see the front of the stage easily as she sang:

  I’m…not responsible

  This…they say ain't possible

  You…may find it irresistible

  I…can make it feasible

  Kiss, kiss love—

  Come make it happen

  Kiss, kiss love—

  You know you want it

  Kiss, kiss love—

  You got it

  The road is open wide

  The road to my heart

  The audience certainly knew the words by heart, especially to an old song like “Kiss Kiss Love”. It had been eleven years since that song had made it onto the pop charts, and it was now a staple on big market music stations. It was known by old and young alike. Many were already singing right along with her by the time Rudo was into the first chorus.

  Some of those in the audience had been in kindergarten when it came out. Others, who were in their teens or twenties back then, had danced to it in nightclubs. Many had also learned the dance that went along with it by now. And tonight, twelve thousand people inside Empire Arena were doing it in unison, with Shamiso lip-syncing to her sister’s singing and doing the dance with them.

  Of course, folks used to think that Rudo Love had invented the dance moves herself. It consisted of mostly hand gestures and hip-grinding...seductive bodily movements that depicted the occasionally explicit lyrics. But that wasn’t entirely true. In reality, Rudo had been out partying one night ten years ago at a London nightclub and seen people out on the dance floor doing a rudimentary version of it. She then noticed others copying them. She simply added it into her show, and after a few years performing it on the road, it now became not only part of her performances—it became something that fans fell in with like it was a cultural tradition.

  In previous tours, she’d save the song for later in the show and have confetti or streamers fired out of cannons located on the flanks of her stage to entertain the audience. But for these last eleven shows, Rudo had decided that it would be a great way to open and get the fans whipped up into a frenzy! It worked quite well this way, as Rudo continued singing and Shamiso continued matching the audience’s dance moves, accentuating the gestures and hip moves to make the dance even more alluring.

  You…are so adorable

  Love…is so conceivable

  Fit…me in your timetable

  I…can be so flexible

  Kiss, kiss love—

  You know you want it

  Kiss, kiss love—

  Come taste my crumpet

  Kiss, kiss love—

  Your muppet

  The goal is well defined

  So come on inside

  Just like Rudo always used to do, after the second chorus of “Kiss Kiss Love”, Shamiso launched into an extended dance routine with her sexy, shirtless backup dancers. This allowed her to expand on the popular club dance that the audience continued doing, while she meanwhile incorporated some original moves. It also included acting out some scintillating stage maneuvers that her sister had choreographed for the show.

  This steamy new routine involved a lot of hip swaying and head-snaps, which, in her declining condition, it would have been best that Rudo not attempt personally. Frankly, for Shamiso they were quite difficult enough! But the audience really got into them. Whooped and hollered with delight. For that matter, they couldn’t believe what they were seeing!

  The backup dancers soon surrounded Shamiso and held her body as she arched over backward, kicked a leg out, then threw it up over one dancer’s shoulder while he knelt and embraced her around the thigh. The dancers then moved about her, lifted her up, and carried her down the catwalk. They then removed her top, partially undressing her, and wowed the already ecstatic audience with si
mulated sex acts, as though the pop singer was taking them on all at once. People screamed in both shock and perverse delight. This was certainly something they didn’t expect!

  But it wasn’t just the overt sexuality. That was something that wouldn’t surprise them one bit when it came to Rudo Love. What amazed them was how a woman of her age, and after so many years of performing, could still move so well. People in the media had already been talking about it for months. The resurrection of her career had been big, big news ever since it had been announced that “The Rudo Love Tour” was resuming its schedule and returning to the cities where shows had been cancelled months before. Fan interest in her performances, as well as downloads of her recordings, were at all-time highs. The production companies who’d bankrolled her latest “album” were ecstatic.

  As the music continued, with screaming guitar solos and synthesizer effects to complement the thumping bass line, Shamiso shimmied and swayed before her rabid fans. One by one, the dancers performed dirty dances with her as she paraded up and down the catwalk in only her miniskirt and a brassiere. Then, as the last of the three dancers finished their routines, returning to the main stage, Shamiso stood alone at the end of the catwalk, pretending to be straightening her hair, with a naughty look on her face like she’d just finished having sex.

  Music still thumping along, Shamiso then picked up her blouse to put it back on. She bit her lip and grinned while she buttoned it up and spun to march back toward her band. This was the signal for them to return to the main chorus—and for Rudo to finish singing the song:

  Kiss, kiss love—

  Come make it happen

  Kiss, kiss love

  You know you want it

  Kiss, kiss love

  You got it

  The road is open wide

  The road to my—

  Kiss, kiss love—

  You know you want it

  Kiss, kiss love—

  Come taste it honey

  Kiss, kiss love

  Get pumpin’

  The goal is well defined

  So come on inside

  Chapter 8

  Triptan

  “Ranger? Raaaannnnnger?” asked teammate Haskeh Naabah. The swelling in Ozzie’s brain was causing images to swirl in his head as he sat there alone. He’d been seated on that bench for quite a while now as the game wound down. Fans had been filing out since about ten minutes remaining. Ozzie was only vaguely aware.

  Few stayed to watch, even when the referee announced there’d be five minutes of stoppage time to be played. By then it was only the die-hard fans up there in those bleachers—as well as those folks who were in no mood to deal with the masses of commuters jamming the parking lots trying to get out of Wembley!

  In response, Ozzie mumbled something incoherent, then Haskeh grabbed him by the shoulder, as if to shake him awake—before suddenly remembering the vicious hits he’d taken. Probably not a good idea to jostle him. Instead, he snapped his fingers and tried getting Ozzie’s attention.

  “Hello in there. Hello? Ranger? Can you hear me, old man?” he asked, trying to get some indication Ozzie was fully conscious. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, blinking as he looked up as if he was sensitive to the brightness of the stadium lights. He seemed confused, disoriented. There was a puddle of vomit in between his feet revealing that he’d gotten sick earlier. All of these things indicated that the man’s brain was concussed.

  Haskeh knew immediately that the safest thing to do would be to notify a trainer to fetch a team doctor and get Ozzie medical attention. But then again...he also knew the safest thing might not be the best thing to do under the circumstances. Once “Ranger” went into “concussion protocol”, that would mean the end of his preseason, and likely get him cut from the team. If the roles were reversed, he knew what he’d have wanted Ozzie to do for him! For now, at least, this matter needed to be kept secret.

  “Ranger? Seriously man. We gotta go. Time’s expired. Game’s over. Come on, let me help you up. Let’s get you outa here ’fore them trainers see ya’ like this.”

  Haskeh then tried escorting his stricken teammate to the locker room. Ozzie slowly stood, with the aid of his colleague, and immediately felt a combination of pain and numbness in his neck and shoulders. If it hadn’t been for Haskeh, he might very well have stumbled and fell.

  “Game’s over?” inquired Ozzie, mumbling and slurring his speech slightly. “Really? Man, I didn’t notice. How did it go out there, by the way?”

  “Ah, you diddun miss nothin’, I guess,” replied Haskeh, trying to be humble. In reality, he’d taken over the offense and led the team quite proficiently in Ozzie’s absence. Did a really good job, all things considered, and led them right down the field. However, he didn’t want to seem like a braggart or sound like some wild-eyed rookie who’d never experienced such a thing. That wouldn’t be cool. Better to be calmer and more matter of fact relating the story. Act like he’d been there before. Still, he couldn’t resist telling Ozzie that he’d managed to score in the waning moments of regular time.

  “Got my first try, though,” he added, shrugging his shoulders. This exciting news helped Ozzie focus his thoughts. He looked up at the scoreboard and now saw Dallas ahead 20-6, verifying this fact. He then reacted excitedly.

  “Whuh—really? Oh man, I missed it!” He then looked back at Haskeh. “Fuck. I missed your first try in the pros. That’s a big deal, buddy. God, I’m so sorry. I just been sittin’ here tryin’ to get my shit together.” After saying that, he began to stagger a bit, like he was still affected from the concussion. Haskeh grabbed his upper arm with one hand, then grasped his wrist. Ozzie winced in pain, which woke him up a bit more from his dizziness.

  “Wow—I didn’t realize where all I was hurtin’,” remarked Ozzie, then he chuckled. That caused his head to hurt some more. “Ow,” he exclaimed with a shriveled grin, then he held his hand up to his eyebrow and rubbed his temples. “Man, them boys really tattooed me out there.” Haskeh didn’t let go of his arm; instead, he looked around to judge how far it was to the tunnel leading out of the stadium.

  “C’mon, Ranger. Let’s see if we kin git ya’ to the locker room. A nice hot shower ’ll do ya’ some good, I bet.” Haskeh then led Ozzie away, leaving his helmet behind for the staff to pick it up. He guided his teammate over to the tunnel, where a crowd of Dallas Wrangler fans had gathered. They’d made their way over there during stoppage time and had been waiting patiently for a chance to greet their heroes from across the Atlantic.

  “Range-uh”—clap-clap—“Range-uh”—clap-clap—“Range-uh”—clap-clap, they cheered and applauded, as Ozzie approached. By now he was feeling a bit rejuvenated due to the blood circulating. And now, trying to hide how difficult it was to crane his head back, especially after the whiplash he’d suffered earlier, Ozzie felt inclined to stop and address his fans despite his injuries. This he knew his brother would have done no matter the circumstances.

  “Part of the job”, he’d probably say if he was there. He’d also frequently say, “Cameras ’r ever-where bro’. So don’t forget. Don’t even scratch yer nuts when you’re inside the stadium. They’ll most likely film it...’n you’ll be sittin’ in a hotel room later that night seein’ yerself on all them macronet sports channels playin’ with yer balls!”

  Fans were always a priority once the game was over. That’s the way Práxedis looked at things, anyway. “Ya’ gotta take care of ’em. They’re what it’s all about, Ozzie. Not a single one of ’em expects anythin’ from ya’ when yer supposed to be out there kickin’ ass. But when that game’s over, they’re gonna want yer time and attention. Unless yer bein’ carried out o’ that stadium on a gurney, you better fuckin’ make time for ’em. Believe me, I know. If twenty fans say yer a good fella’, then twenty thousand ’ll find out about it. Piss ’em off, ’n the whole fuckin’ world ’ll know within a week.”

  “Now come on, y’all,” scoffed Ozzie humorously, waving them off with both han
ds like he was alerting a dinner host that he was truly grateful for the hearty meal but couldn’t eat another bite. “Seriously folks. I was only in for five ’r ten minutes. Here’s yer new superstar right here. Go ahead, Haskeh, take a bow. Folks, now I know y’all saw him playin’. I was kinda out of it at the time, but sources close to the situation tell me he done got himself his first try tonight. How ’bout it, huh? Y’all saw it, diddun ya’?”

  During this, he stiffly backed away from Haskeh and gestured toward him like he was presenting the next act during a vaudeville show. It hurt his neck to move like that, but the shooting pain did a pretty good job of waking him up some more. The buzzy whine in his head was only slightly mitigating itself, and caused him to talk even louder when he tried communicating with the five hundred fans packed around that tunnel cheering their favorite team. Many were Londoners themselves, older fans who’d followed the team since before London got its own franchise. Others were North Americans living in England or Europe who’d made the trip to come see them.

  Of course, everyone recognized Haskeh Naabah, even without the introduction. He was so big and tall at 1.98 meters, he towered over most other players. “Haskeh Naabah”—clap clap, clap-clap-clap—“Haskeh Naabah”— clap clap, clap-clap-clap, they began cheering, and Haskeh practically doubled over laughing, it was so embarrassingly silly.

  “There you go!” shouted Ozzie, encouraging them and joining in with the celebration. He tried doing the clapping, too, but it hurt his throwing hand, which was still sore from earlier, so he mimicked the movements until the fans lost interest and returned to cheering. Ozzie looked at the young man. He was only two years younger than him, biologically speaking. However, he could see how much better suited Haskeh was to such a violent sport as Megaball.