My Favorite Band Does Not Exist

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  " 'Corpuscle Porpoise'?" said Eunice. "Never heard of it."

  Idea made sure that the guy was too far away to hear what he said next. "It's a made-up song."

  "All songs are made up by someone," she observed.

  "Yeah, but no," said Idea. "What I meant was"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"none of Youforia's songs are real."

  "What are you talking about?" Eunice didn't bother to whisper.

  He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice even more. "Youforia does not exist."

  "And this is a big deal why?"

  "There's a lot of buzz," said Idea. "People are hitting the website like crazy. I did such a good job of making up the band that people actually think it's real." He scrolled through the site's home page. "Take a look. The site's got fake band member biographies and photos, fake tour schedules, fake discographies and reviews. Youforia's on YoFace and Yapper, too. I'm yapping as we speak, pretending to be the lead guitarist, Wicked Livenbladder."

  "So you're not real, then?" She rapped her knuckles on his head. "You seem solid enough to me."

  He shot her a dirty look. "You know what I mean. They all think I'm Wicked Livenbladder instead of who I really am." A fresh line of text appeared in the Yapper window, and Idea read it with a grin. "Look at this! Thiefaroni109 is talking about seeing the band play a legendary secret gig at Humpy's in Hotknee, Nebraska."

  "A secret gig?"

  "The lead singer's got stage fright issues. He'll only let the band play out in disguise." Idea smirked. "The made-up singer in the make-believe band, that is."

  Eunice grinned. "Which Thiefaroni109 couldn't have seen because, like you, they aren't real."

  "Exactly!" said Idea. "The gig never happened. There's no such place as Humpy's or Hotknee. In my original story on the website, Youforia played their gig at Hump Day's in Hotfoot, Florida. Now, you watch; other people will say the gig was at Humpy's in Hotknee, and Thiefaroni's mistake will become the new truth. I might even change the website to match."

  "Interesting," said Eunice. "This stuff takes on a life of its own, doesn't it?"

  He nodded. "That's a good way of putting it."

  "Too bad you can't make up your own life the same way," she said. "Make things happen the way you want them to."

  "Yeah," said Idea. "Too bad."

  WHEN Eurydice Tarantella emerged from the bathroom, bass player Chick Sintensity was trying to stop lead guitarist Wicked Livenbladder from smashing the laptop.

  "They did it again!" With his grizzly bear face twisted into a snarl, Wicked tore the laptop out of Chick's hands. "They did it again!" He swung the laptop across his huge belly, using his girth to prevent bony, bald Chick from retrieving it.

  Just as Wicked pulled the computer away from Chick, drummer Gail Virtuoso took it away from Wicked. Before he could make another grab for it, Gail ran across the beds and dove through the door into the adjoining room. She slammed it shut behind her and locked it from the other side.

  Wicked stomped across the room and pounded on the door with both fists, shouting for Gail to bring back the computer. She responded by cranking up the volume of the TV to drown him out.

  After a few moments, his pounding faded. He went from two fists to one, then from one fist to one open hand.

  Chick tapped him on the shoulder and offered him a bottle of beer. Wicked looked pissed, but he took the beer and had a long drink from it.

  As he lowered the bottle from his lips, he shook his head and pawed at his shaggy mane of brown hair and beard. "How do they keep doin' it? How do they know so much about us?"

  Chick had a drink from his own beer and shrugged. "It's weird, all right. We haven't exactly gone public. This is supposed to be a secret tour we're on."

  "Yeah," said Wicked. "But at the rate these guys are goin', pretty soon there won't be anything secret about it."

  "That's no secret, man." The scars on Chick's cheek, chin, and nose folded into the lines of his broad toothy smile.

  "Everything's on the website," Wicked continued. "All over YoFace and Yapper, too. Everything you ever wanted to know about Youforia."

  Eurydice blew a green bubble with her chewing gum, then popped it and sucked the gum back into her mouth. "Look on the bright side. Maybe nobody cares enough to want to know your secrets." Though she'd stayed back during the action, she stepped forward now and checked herself in the mirror. After adjusting one of her long black braids, she helped herself to a bottle of beer from the six-pack on the dresser.

  "I wish." Wicked winced. "I mean, I want people to care about us, but I don't want 'em finding out all our secrets on the damn Internet before our big debut!"

  "They were yapping about the Hotfoot, Florida, show, back in Jovember," said Chick. "They even knew we played in disguise, under a different name."

  "Scowling Linda," said Wicked.

  "Not that it would've made any difference if we'd played as Youforia," Chick added. "No one but us is supposed to know that we call our band Youforia, anyway!"

  "Us"—Eurydice sat down on the edge of the bed—"and everyone who hits the Youforia website, YoFace page, and Yapper feed."

  Wicked let loose a loud growl of frustration. "How the hell did this Youforia website even get started? We're a secret band, for cryin' out loud!"

  "Must be Sty." Gail, who'd eased open the door from the adjoining room and slipped in unnoticed, sat in one of the blue vinyl chairs by the window.

  "You think so?" said Wicked.

  "Is the sky green?" Gail tossed her head emphatically, shaking her choppy red bangs out of her eyes.

  "Yes, the sky is green," said Wicked. "Are we done stating the obvious?"

  "Maybe it's his way of speeding things up," Gail said. "Maybe he figures the publicity will finally force Reacher to get over his freaky stage fright and play in front of people without wearing a mask."

  Eurydice cracked her gum loudly. "Sty wouldn't do this."

  Gail flashed her a dark look. The two of them didn't get along at all, and it wasn't just because Gail had once dated Eurydice's current boyfriend, Reacher Mirage, the band's lead singer.

  "So who else would know all our personal information?" asked Chick. "Other than one of us in this room, that is."

  "I don't have any answers for you," said Eurydice.

  "What about Rebacka?" Gail said with a sneer. "She's being awfully quiet about all this."

  Without taking her eyes off Gail, Eurydice took a drink from her beer.

  "Come on, Eury," said Gail. "Turn around so I can ask Rebacka a couple questions."

  Eurydice lowered her beer. Slowly she turned her back on Gail.

  And turned another face toward her ... a face that was drawn on the back of Eurydice's head.

  This two-dimensional face had big blue eyes, a pug nose, and thin pink lips. These features were framed by free-falling blond hair with a single thin braid on one side, threaded through black and white beads.

  Eurydice further accentuated the impression that a second person looked out from the back half of her by wearing clothes with two front halves stitched together. Tonight, on her front side, her blouse was black silk with a brown fur collar; the black half of the blouse ended along the sides of her body, where it joined to the pink and white striped top on her back. On her front half, she wore black jeans, but in back, her pants were red.

  It was Eurydice's trademark look, and of course it drew stares in public. Among the band members, though, it was old news. No one in the band brought it up anymore, except Gail, who'd nicknamed the back side Rebacka and made fun of it whenever she was drunk.

  "Hey, Rebacka!" Gail said with a nasty laugh in her voice. "How much did they pay you for our personal secrets?"

  Eurydice cracked her gum twice. "They were going to pay me plenty." She said it in a high singsong, as if Rebacka were the one speaking. "Except they already got all your secrets for free off a men's room wall."

  Everyone laughed except Gail, who jumped off the chair and stormed o
ut of the room again.

  With that, Chick folded his hands behind his head, stretched, and yawned. "On that note"—his voice, after the yawn, was high-pitched—"time for bed, I'd say. Doesn't look like we're gonna catch the traitor tonight."

  Wicked yawned, too. "I'm with you."

  Eurydice threw herself down on one of the beds and picked up a fat paperback from the bedside table. The book belonged to Reacher, who'd been reading it between band gigs.

  It was a fantasy novel titled Fireskull's Revenant, by Milt Ifthen. True to the title, the cover was splashed with a painted image of a man with a flaming skull. He wore black leather, rode a jet black horse, and brandished a gleaming sword that dripped blood.

  With nothing better to do while she waited for Reacher to get back, Eurydice opened to the bookmarked place—the start of Chapter 39—and began reading...

  AS the echo of the final sword strike faded over the battlefield, Lord Fireskull stomped among the dead, handpicking the corpses that would decorate the walls of his keep. His ever-burning head and black, leathery wings gave him the appearance of an angel of death, collecting the souls of fallen warriors under the blazing orange sky.

  Two newly taken slaves and a slave driver followed, throwing bodies on a cart as Fireskull selected them. In some cases, parts were chosen and tossed onto the cart, severed forever from the bodies to which they had once been attached.

  "Oh, here's a good one," said Fireskull, kicking the mangled corpse of a blond-haired man. "When this traitor's head has been picked clean atop the highest pike, I shall use it to adorn my bedpost."

  Gripping the man's hair with one hand, Fireskull lifted him from the muck. With his other hand, he used his sword to hack through the man's neck.

  The body fell free. Fireskull heaved the head over his shoulder, and it landed on the ground. Neither of the slaves caught it, drawing whip strokes from the slave driver for both of them.

  As the slaves scurried under the cracking whip to retrieve the prize, Fireskull continued onward through the misty field of gore. Though he was the victor, he was restless and seething with rage.

  As satisfying as it was to mutilate dead traitors, Fireskull knew that he would not find the one corpse he most wanted. With his own fiery eyes, he had seen his lifelong enemy ride off toward the borderland at battle's end, alive and whole.

  These other bodies were no substitute for Johnny Without. Many of them had been followers of Johnny's and so deserved whatever defilement Fireskull chose to lavish upon them. But none could draw the boiling torrent of vengeance from Fireskull's pseudoheart and absorb his full and terrible wrath.

  Only Johnny could do that.

  Just the thought of Johnny hurtling away, on goose back, was enough to make Fireskull kill a twitching survivor at his feet. He heard someone groaning a few corpses away and stormed over to kill her, too.

  Neither murder did a thing to relieve his fury. After a blistering battle, Johnny Without was still alive and safe within the borders of his neighboring kingdom.

  That would have to change. It had happened too many times before, in spite of shifting alliances and ever more brilliant plans that had seemed to confer unbeatable advantages upon Fireskull. Again and again, his opponent had escaped, even when his death had seemed certain, and returned to resume the blood feud.

  It was a vicious circle that had to end. Perhaps the time to act was now.

  Now, so close to a just-ended catastrophic battle, could be the best time for an all-out strike. Perhaps, instead of pulling back to rebuild and retrench and rescheme, Fireskull should hurl everything that he had left into an assault on Johnny's domain.

  It would be something that Fireskull had not tried before. It might turn out to be completely unexpected and boldly successful.

  Fireskull disposed of another survivor in the mud, then searched the drifting mist for General Shunjoy Undercut. With each passing moment, Fireskull liked his plan more, and he wanted his chief military commander to set it in motion.

  When Fireskull spotted Undercut, however, his focus shifted. Red-plumed war helmet in hand, Undercut approached from the forest's edge with a stranger. Without saying a word, the stranger declared himself to be a person of significance.

  The stranger wore a robe of tattered brown sackcloth, his face mostly hidden by the hood, but he carried himself with a regal bearing, stiff and imperious. Though Fireskull did not know who the stranger was, he sensed that the man possessed some kind of power and authority. In spite of the carpet of disemboweled corpses at his feet, the stranger seemed as at ease on the battlefield as General Undercut.

  As usual, Fireskull's instincts were accurate, although he did not realize just how historic a meeting this would be and how important a role the stranger would play in his future. If he had known those things, Fireskull would have dismembered the prophet on the spot, before a single word had left his mouth.

  "Excellency." Undercut drew ahead of the stranger and fell to one knee with head bowed before Fireskull. "I have brought a holy man who seeks an audience with you."

  Fireskull tapped the flat of his black sword on Undercut's shoulder. "Rise, faithful warrior. Tell me ... is this man friend or foe?"

  "Most assuredly, I come as a friend." The stranger swept forward and dropped to one knee just as Undercut was getting to his feet.

  "My lord, this man is Highcast," said Undercut. "A great prophet. He is said to have predicted the Plague of Nothing, Premageddon, and the Day/Night Wars."

  Fireskull nodded and said nothing. He had heard the man's name before, although he did not wish to admit it and confer additional status upon Highcast.

  "Brother Highcast," said Undercut. "You are in the presence of the Ultimate Destroyer, the Ebon Angel of Suffering and Slaughter, the most exalted and terrifying Lord Righteous Fireskull of the Unrepentant Kingdom. Make peace with whatever gods or devils you serve, for you might not survive to tell of this rapturous and terrible experience."

  "On your feet, wretch," snarled Fireskull. "Tell me why I should not rend you into ten thousand pieces for setting foot in my kingdom uninvited."

  Smoothly Highcast rose from the bloody ground and spread his arms wide. "The end of the world is upon us. And you will set it in motion."

  Fireskull cocked his head to one side. "Who says so?"

  "I have seen it in a vision," said Highcast. "I have seen the vision three times. There can be no mistake."

  "So, tell me." Fireskull leaned close to Highcast. "How do I do it? How do I end the world?"

  Highcast glowed red in the light of Fireskull's flames, but he did not seem a bit nervous. "You do not do it alone. The prophecy is this: If Lord Fireskull and Johnny Without should ever again meet face-to-face, the world will be destroyed in a cataclysm of devastating explosions."

  Fireskull smirked and leaned back. "Explosions?"

  "And that day, when all life ends and the world is reduced to cinders and dust, shall be called Boomsday."

  " 'Boomsday.' " Fireskull looked at Undercut, whose expression was quite serious, and laughed. "The world will blow up unless I stay away from Johnny Without."

  Highcast nodded. "As you say, lord."

  "Good one." Fireskull laughed some more. "And what a coincidence that you show up with this prophecy just when Johnny's back is against the wall."

  "It is no coincidence," said Highcast, "that I have come just as you are about to launch an attack that will bring you face-to-face with Johnny, fulfilling the prophecy and ending the world."

  Fireskull did not show it, but he was surprised at Highcast's mention of an impending attack on Johnny. No one but Fireskull himself could have known that a fresh assault was imminent. Yet the self-proclaimed prophet, Highcast, had mentioned it as if it were common knowledge.

  However Highcast had come up with the information, whether by mind-diving or guesswork, Fireskull would not give him the satisfaction of confirming it—especially since he thought that he knew whose hands were pulling Highcast's string
s.

  "How much is Johnny paying you?" asked Fireskull. "How much to save his miserable hide?"

  "I am in no one's employ but my own." Highcast bowed. "The truth itself is my only reward."

  With a sigh, Fireskull turned his back on the prophet. Spreading his leathery wings wide, he took several steps away, walking over sprawled corpses as if they were paving stones.

  "You must not value your life much, trying to trick me into sparing your master," said Fireskull. "He must not value your life much, either."

  "My life is not an issue," said Highcast. "I have foreseen that I will leave here alive and unharmed."

  Fireskull laughed loudly and flapped his wings. "Then perhaps you're not much of a prophet, after all."

  "My visions are never wrong," said Highcast. "I foresaw the destruction of the Second Sun seven years before it happened. I warned of the return of the Consumptive Legion a full decade before they crossed into Carcassia.

  "Five years before the Milkmen escaped the Bleak District, I prophesied every detail before the Kings of Psalivir. I saw it all before it happened."

  Fireskull spun and jabbed a clawed finger at Highcast. "According to you, and Johnny, who's putting words in your mouth."

  "He is not my master," said Highcast. "In fact, when I leave here, I will go to him and tell him exactly what I have told you."

  "You will report back to him on the outcome of the mission he sent you on, you mean," Fireskull snarled.

  "Please," said Highcast. "I beg you. Do what you will, but do not meet him face-to-face. The world will be destroyed, and you along with it."

  Fireskull flapped his wings and rose several feet into the air. He had heard enough. Whatever amusement value Highcast had provided had long been exhausted.

  "General Undercut," said Fireskull. "Shall I give him a ten-second head start, or no head start at all? Better yet, should I let him keep his head, or leave him with no head at all?"