Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

Not that any of the contents inside are mine. I see Rich’s tupperware container full of what looks like spaghetti and meatballs. Can’t touch the boss’ dinner. There’s cans of sodas, which I don’t want. Then I notice one of Kellan’s rotten brown juice sitting on the shelf. He left earlier, so maybe he forgot to drink it today?

  Ms. Mischievous wrings her crafty hands and suggests I steal his drink because he won’t miss it.

  Ms. Sensible reminds me that if it looks rotten, it probably is rotten.

  Ms. Desperate eyes the bag of salty chips in my hands and reminds me it won’t be enough to get me through my evening of music study.

  I reach into the fridge and take Kellan’s bottle. Then I lean my head out into the hallway to see if anyone is coming. Nope. All clear. I twist the cap off the bottle and smell the juice daintily. Doesn’t smell bad. With my tongue I touch the bottle’s rim, collecting a stray droplet of rot. I smack my lips, testing the taste.

  It seems drinkable.

  I take a swallow from the bottle.

  It’s an explosion of flavors and it’s actually not bad. I’m surprised. At first, I taste fruits and vegetables. It’s kind of like salad and fruit juice, but I can handle it. A moment later, this green grass aftertaste kicks in and I’m smacking my tongue on the roof of my mouth and grimacing. It tastes like freshly mowed lawn. How the hell does Kellan drink this stuff?

  But I remind myself Kellan has lots of muscles and beautiful skin. Maybe he’s on to something. I drink another swallow and wince in anticipation of the aftertaste.

  It’s not quite as bad this time.

  I can get used to it.

  Ms. Sensible reminds me I’m stealing Kellan’s juice.

  Ms. Rationalizer reminds me if Kellan wanted it, he would’ve drunk it already.

  Ms. Lewdness reminds me Kellan’s lips were on this bottle top and it’s almost like I’m kissing him by drinking from his bottle.

  Ms. Logical reminds me that the bottle was unopened, therefore, my lips are not in contact with Kellan’s in any way, shape, or form.

  I take another swallow, reminding myself how healthy it is.

  “Are you drinking Kellan’s moldy used bath water?” Rich Aymes asks out of nowhere, suddenly standing behind me in the kitchen doorframe.

  Half the swallow goes down my windpipe and I start hacking out lung tissue. That’s when the other half sprays out of my mouth in a green brown mist.

  Rich leans back, a concerned look on his face, “You okay?”

  I’m still coughing.

  He asks thoughtfully, “Do you need the Heimlich?”

  I cough, “No—” HACK! “—all—” HACK! “—good!” HACK!

  “You sure?”

  I shake my head, “I’m—” HACK! “—fine.”

  “I know if you’re coughing your windpipe isn’t blocked,” Rich says, “but if we need to take you to the Emergency Room to drain your lungs, let me know. I’ll be in my office,” he jokes.

  I open my mouth to say, HACK! “Thanks.” Cough.

  Rich smiles, “None of the candy in the machine is moldy. The vending machine guy fills it up every week. I suggest you stick with that.” Rich grins and walks away while I recover.

  It wasn’t the taste of the juice that made me cough. Rich just surprised me.

  I hold up the bottle of moldy brown bath water to the light. Not even sunlight could penetrate this brown cloud.

  Maybe it was slightly the taste of the juice.

  Ms. Sensible reminds me that we reap what we sow.

  I tell her to fuck off before I pour the rest of the juice down my throat.

  Chastised, she says nothing. Apparently, she doesn’t like the juice either.

  I empty the bottle down the kitchen sink. Then I plug quarters into the vending machine and punch the buttons for a bag of chocolate chip cookies. I should’ve gone with them in the first place. I rip the package open and take a bite. They even taste fresh.

  I walk into my practice room and close the door.

  I’ve got work to do for the Wild Child audition. Chocolate Chips and Lay’s potato chips will fuel me through it.

  $20,000, here I come!

  Chapter 80

  KELLAN

  “Remember,” I say to Switchblade as she drives the two of us to the Wild Child audition in Hollywood two days later, “The second we walk in the door, it’s every man for himself.”

  “You wish you were a man, you fucking pussy,” she barks. Switchblade drives a banged up 1997 Chevy Camaro. It’s not exactly classic American Muscle, but it runs pretty good for a seventeen year old car and Switchblade looks great behind the wheel. The car is white with twin orange stripes running the length of the car.

  It’s Saturday afternoon and weekend traffic is sluggish. The Camaro’s A/C is busted, so the windows are rolled down. Hot air blows inside the car as we cruise along the 10 freeway.

  Switchblade smashes her fist against the wheel. “What’s with all the fucking traffic? Is everybody going to this audition?”

  “Probably,” I chuckle.

  “Tell them to turn around, because I’m getting the gig,” she laughs.

  “It’s probably people coming back from the beach. Today was perfect weather for it. I wish I’d gone myself, but we’ve got more important things.”

  Switchblade nods.

  Our guitars cases are jammed in the cramped backseat.

  Switchblade asks, “Do you think we should’ve brought better amps? All I’ve got is my old Crate 1x12.”

  I chuckle, “It’s not like your trunk had room for extra. Besides, we don’t need good amps.”

  “Why not?” she asks skeptically.

  “Have you ever seen that video on YouTube of Jason Becker covering Yngwie Malmsteen’s song Black Star?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one when Jason is in high school playing the talent show?”

  She grins, remembering, “Oh, yeah. Becker shreds. I love the part when the principal walks onstage and tells him to turn his amp down, but Jason only pretends like he’s turning it down.” Switchblade beams a smile, which looks really good on her. “Total rebel.”

  “Yeah, that’s hilarious,” I grin. “Anyway, the point is, Becker is playing some shitty 80s Peavey combo amp and his tone is amazing. It’s all in the hands. Your Crate will be more than good enough for Wild Child.”

  She nods thoughtfully, “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m right,” I say confidently. “You’re going to kick ass during your audition.”

  She glances over at me and smiles, “How’d you get to be so cool, Kellan Burns?”

  I chuckle and smile back at her, “I’ve always been this cool.”

  Out of nowhere, she gives me this soft look, which is new on her.

  If I didn’t know she was gay, I’d swear she’s into me. Maybe she’s bi? I can’t tell. Or maybe she pretends she’s gay so guys like me don’t hit on her. Sometimes crazy shit like that happens. You never know.

  Switchblade’s eyes go nervous and she swings them back to the freeway ahead.

  We drive in silence for a moment.

  I ask, “You nervous about the audition?”

  She blurts with her usual bravado, “Aren’t you?”

  “No.” I mean it.

  “We need some tunes,” Switchblade turns on the CD player and cranks up the volume. Wild Child pumps out of the car stereo. Switchblade rattles her fingers against the wheel in time with the beat.

  Is she covering something up?

  Cuz she’s acting way weird on me.

  Chapter 81

  VICTORY

  A really tall guy wearing a comically tall black top hat and black top coat over tight black-and-white diamond-checked jester pants walks out of the back of the recording studio and into the reception area where I sit.

  Top Hat’s knee-high platform goth boots go clomp, clomp, clomp. He resembles a ghoulish evil freakshow version of The Cat In The Hat. I think this guy would be better su
ited auditioning for Rob Zombie than for a hard drinking, fast cars and fast women hard rock band like Wild Child.

  An assistant with a clipboard who is handling the auditions for Wild Child follows The Ghoul In The Hat out of the back.

  I’ve been sitting here waiting patiently for my chance to audition for several hours. If I land this gig, I’m going to make $20,000 in two months. I can’t let anyone or anything stand in the way of me getting this gig.

  I need this gig.

  I will kill for this gig.

  Starting with Ghoul In The Hat.

  I’m going to follow him outside into the nearest alley and slit his throat with my rainbow rape knife. So, even if Wild Child picks him, they’re not likely to hire his corpse. Then they’ll be forced to hire me. Unless Ghoul In The Hat is actually a ghoul, in which case the ghoul surgeons will be able to stitch his head back on and he’ll still be able to play for Wild Child.

  Okay, I need a plan B.

  I know! I’ll burn Ghoul In The Hat’s body!

  Then he’ll be totally out of commission.

  I’ve got matches in my purse somewhere…

  Ghoul In The Hat turns to the assistant guy and asks, “When do we find out if we get the job?”

  The assistant, who has answered this same question repeatedly from a dozen other guitar players in the last two hours, says robotically, “We’ll call you.” I think it’s a polite way of saying, “You don’t have a chance, so get out of here.”

  Ghoul In The Hat walks out the front door onto the sunny street outside, letting the baking heat into the air conditioned reception room of the rented recording studio.

  Instead of digging through my purse for those matches, I sink back in my waiting room seat and sigh.

  At the moment, I’m fried because I’ve been up way too late the last two nights cramming Wild Child songs into my head and hands.

  Apparently, tiredness leads to insanity.

  My body burning plans are proof.

  I swear, I would never actually hurt a ghoul. Not on purpose.

  I snicker to myself.

  Better to trust that my guitar playing skills and my hot black leather stage costume will be enough to win the job for me. My outfit is the same rocker chick ninja one I wore when Skin Trade played The Cobra Lounge. Skin tight low ride lace up leather pants, golden studded leather bra and jacket, bare midriff, hooker heels. When I walked from my car to the recording studio this morning, three different guys whistled at me.

  Wild Child is going to love me.

  The assistant checks his clipboard, lifting the sheet of paper. He reads off the next name, “Mark Kutler?”

  Mark is busy thumb-typing on his iPhone. He smiles at the assistant, stands casually, and carries his guitar case toward the assistant.

  I’m actually concerned about Mark Kutler. He’s a big session musician in L.A. and he’s really good. I’ve watched tons of his instructional videos online. He also has the right look for Wild Child. Handsome, shaggy hair, trim goatee, worn jeans, motorcycle boots, a faded Misfits shirt, and tattoo sleeves on both arms. He’s a perfect fit for the band.

  Mark and the assistant walk into the back together.

  Unlike Ghoul In The Hat, Mark could easily land this gig. I need to do something about him. Luckily for me, Mark glanced at me at least twenty times while he sat on the other side of the waiting room for the past twenty minutes.

  I think if I use my feminine wiles to lure Mark into a dark alley and distract him momentarily, I can conk him over the head with my guitar case. Then I’ll tie him up, lock him in my trunk, and not tell anyone where he is until I’m already on the road touring with Wild Child.

  That’ll work.

  I just need to buy some water bottles and a big bag of M&M’s to leave in the trunk with Mark, and make sure I park my Altima under a shady tree so he doesn’t die from the heat.

  Problem solved.

  The only thing left for me to do is wait patiently until they call my name.

  Despite the fact I was the first person to put my name on the assistant’s list this morning, they’re giving preference to bigger name guitar players who showed up long after I did, like Mark Kutler.

  Nobodies like me have to wait and hope for the best.

  Ms. Hopeful reminds me that if I stay all day, they’re bound to give me a shot eventually, right?

  I cross my fingers.

  Ms. Bitter decides that when I lock Mark in my trunk, he won’t get water and M&M’s. He’ll get a gallon of Kellan’s brown sewage juice and he’ll like it.

  Kellan’s foul juice may be healthier, but if I was locked in a trunk, I’d rather have the M&M’s.

  I fold my arms across my chest.

  Mark gets sewage juice.

  I shake my head and grin.

  All I can do is wait.

  There’s only a couple of other guitar players in the room who’ve been waiting and waiting with me.

  I don’t recognize either of them, so I should get called before they do.

  One has been practicing Wild Child tunes on his Jackson Randy Rhoads V for the last hour. He wears headphones and is plugged into a Line 6 Pocket Pod. His unamplified guitar strings buzz tinnily. His playing is okay, but he’s not as good as me.

  The other guy sits in the corner. He’s been chewing on his fingernails since he got here. I think he’s down to the quick, and looks intent on working his way down to the bone. He’s totally nervous and I bet his fingers will be bleeding before he gets called, so he won’t be able to play. And I’m starting to wonder if he’s actually here to audition, or if he just wandered in from the street to beat the heat.

  Either way, I plan on clinching this audition the second I walk into the back and meet the band.

  Chapter 82

  VICTORY

  The recording studio’s front door opens and I hear hearty baritone laughter. I recognize it immediately.

  “After you,” Kellan says.

  “Ladies first,” a female voice says from outside.

  All I can see is Kellan’s hand holding the door open for someone.

  “Age before beauty,” Kellan says.

  “Who you calling old, bitch?” the female answers gruffly.

  “Your ass,” Kellan laughs.

  “You like my ass,” the woman snickers. “I’ve seen the way you stare at it at band practice.”

  “Can you blame me?” Kellan laughs.

  “No,” the floozy says coyly. “I work hard on my ass.”

  The whole time they’re talking, they’re still standing outside, and I can’t see who the floozy is, although her voice is vaguely familiar. Is it that pink haired girl named Switchblade who picked Kellan up at Rock & Roll High School the other day?

  Not that I care.

  Kellan chuckles, “I’ll work hard on your ass if you don’t squeeze it through the front door. Now move!”

  The pink haired girl stumbles through the door, guitar case in hand. Yup, it’s Switchblade. Kellan follows her inside. They both have guitars in hand and Kellan carries a practice amp as well.

  He wears a tight t-shirt (when doesn’t he) that reveals his tattooed arms, tight jeans (the crotch looks a bit snug on him, not that I pay it any attention), and motorcycle boots. Sunglasses rest on his nose. His plump lips are stretched across his pristine white teeth that beam from his tanned features.

  Spectacular.

  I’m so glad Kellan’s here. Yeah, right.

  I can only hope that I’ll get called in first for my audition so I don’t have to listen to him yammer on and on about I don’t give a shit what with Switchblade, who I notice has a low cut top that reveals plenty of cleavage.

  Is she here to audition too? She brought a guitar, so I’m guessing yes. Damn. I thought I was the only sexy chick guitar player. That was going to be my edge. Well, that and my playing. I wonder if Switchblade is any good? There’s no way to know.

  Kellan notices me at last. He chuckles, “Look who’s here.”
<
br />   “Who?” Switchblade warbles, smiling innocently, still caught up in the good time vibe she shares with Kellan.

  I’m not jealous. Why would I be? I’m here to audition.

  “Victory,” Kellan grins. "How are you, girl?”

  Wow, he sounds lame for some reason. Probably because he’s been yucking it up with Switchblade all day. Is she his girlfriend? I can’t really tell. She’s certainly his type: stunning and plays guitar.

  Not that I care.

  Kellan walks over and sets the practice amp and his guitar case on the floor next to mine. He tilts his sunglasses up on top of his head, pushing his thick hair back with them.

  Damn, he has nice eyes.

  I wonder if he’ll say anything about my stage costume. I look super sexy in it. He’s seen me in it before and liked it then.

  He drops into the chair one seat away from mine, “How long you been waiting?”

  “Oh, a half hour?” I lie. I glance at the two other guys, wondering if they’ll say anything to correct me. They don’t. Headphones is busy playing and Nails is down to his last pinky nail. Poor guy.

  “That’s not bad,” Kellan says. “I guess there’s not much of a wait?”

  “I guess not,” I lie. I’m not telling him I’ve been here six hours. And I don’t think he’s going to mention my stage costume. Not that it matters. I know I look good in it.

  Switchblade, who looks like a punk rock stripper, wrinkles her petite nose and smiles at me, “Didn’t I meet you at Kellan’s work?”

  Kellan’s work? I work there too. “Yeah,” I say absently, trying not to be overly disinterested or rude. I suddenly understand why Nails bites his fingernails because I totally feel like doing it right now myself.

  “I’m Switchblade,” she says, “What’s your name? Victory?”

  I nod, then notice she’s holding out her hand to shake. I reluctantly shake it and drop it as soon as it’s polite enough to let go.

  She asks, “You play guitar?”

  I glance at my guitar case, “Yeah?” Duh.

  “Me too,” she grins.