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Page 18

by Fox J Wilde


  Then there was the skyline itself, filled with millions (if not more) of tall, crazy-looking buildings. She had seen them from afar, sure, but looking at them through the gaps in razor-wire was such a pale comparison to the real thing. Half of them looked to be made entirely of glass, and each one looked to be its own separate village, as if designed irrespective of its surroundings. The buildings didn’t have the same stoic concrete-appeal as they did in the GDR. They didn’t look like they would last quite as long, and there was no familiarity to them. Yet they were so vivid. This, combined with bright neon colors and graffiti that clung inelegantly to them, all seemed horribly irresponsible. Lena loved that profusely.

  “Just look at it!” Jakob was the first to speak as he pressed his face against the glass of the small touring van, “Just fuckin’ look at it! It’s fuckin’ beautiful!”

  “It’s so bright.” Vortecx said in a tone that more or less suggested agreement.

  “I feel like I’m home!” Vivika exclaimed, “Oh Lena, just look at all of it! It’s like a masterpiece of…of…grit!”

  “I know.” Lena agreed, “It feels like it should be home.”

  “I don’t think I could spend an entire month here.” Vortecx said, “It’s great for a visit, though.”

  “Suit your fuckin’ selves!” Jakob exclaimed, “I want to run right out into it all, and do everything there is to possibly do! And I don’t want to stop until it kills me!”

  “It probably will, if you aren’t careful.” Vivika said plainly, “And I don’t want to spend this entire trip babysitting you. So, for once in your life, be responsible.”

  “Aw, screw you!” he responded, while still pressing his face to the glass, “You can take your shit responsibilities and shove ‘em up your arse! I want it all!” Then, turning towards the front of the van, as if acknowledging the driver for the first time, Jakob shouted, “Hey, driver! Driver!”

  “What?” Patrick responded, annoyed.

  Oh, that had happened, by the way.

  As much as the bands in the GDR absolutely fantasized about heading over the wall to sweet freedom, nothing was ever that easy. You never received carte blanche or a blank check where the State was concerned. Sure, you received a little tour van, and sure you received some money, smokes and goodies for the road. But you also received your own personal Stasi officer (or as he preferred, ‘road manager’).

  The ‘road manager’ had a few important duties. Firstly, to get the bands to where they needed to go, and make some perfunctory affectations about “Your place on the set list,” or “The sound check you’re going to get.” But his main job was much more personal: ensure you played the music you were supposed to play, and ensure you made it back onto the van and back into the GDR. Lena didn’t know how the Stasi would ensure you didn’t run off in a country where they had absolutely no power whatsoever, but then she figured that’s probably why Grandfather had sent Patrick. After all, he was likely the only person in the world besides Grandfather that had a chance at bringing her back.

  Grandfather knew her well, as did Patrick. After the night at the Interhostel, she had planned on bolting into the sweet arms of freedom the first chance she had, band be damned. Both of them had figured as much, yet they were quite amiable about it. It was almost as if her revilement was expected. However, it had taken a combined effort on both of their parts, at separate times, to convince her to hang in for the greater good.

  “You just have to trust me,” Grandfather had gently pleaded. “I know it seems bleak and confusing right now. Trust that I know that feeling. But when I was your age, I had an officer who saw me through for my personal good. Now I’m asking you to trust me in the same way. Ok?”

  She swore that she would, and she did trust him of course. There were a great many things that Lena trusted in her life. She trusted that gravity would always pull her down, or that a chair would always hold her up. She also trusted the Stasi and HVA to always have her worst interests in mind, and she trusted that Grandfather worked for them. Neither gravity, nor chairs, nor Grandfather, did she trust with her life or her freedom. As far as she was concerned, the only purpose he really served was keeping Dragon Lady at bay. And the mere fact that they worked together was enough to make her hate him completely.

  Ok, maybe she didn’t hate-hate him; but she certainly didn’t trust him in the way he wanted her too. Luckily for Grandfather, Patrick absolutely had what it took to earn her trust. By the time they had both piled into this little van, she had thoroughly bonded with him. They had been through some pretty rough times together, after all. And while the ‘Mad Bunny’ trusted her tour manager Patrick—errr, ‘Victor’, as he was now called—with her true story, he had seen fit to trust her with a deep secret as well: he hated the Stasi and the HVA just as much (or even more than) she did.

  Few liked what it took to make an informant out of the rich and powerful, least of all full-time agents who felt they had better things to do with their time than find desperate old politicians to seduce. But Patrick, well, that was an aspect of being an agent that he utterly loathed. Once he was able to get Lena away from prying eyes and ears, he had made that—and much more—perfectly clear.

  Patrick had only briefly served with the Stasi. He was a product of parents who had fallen under intense State scrutiny. They had been locked up on trumped-up charges and a kangaroo-conviction, after which Patrick had been very nearly sent to Torgau—essentially an extermination camp for orphans. But, since his 18th birthday had been near enough, and he had shown an above-average intellect, he was offered the opportunity to “reclaim his parents’ lost virtue” in direct service to the State.

  Halfway through his training, however, his Academy instructors had noticed two important things about Patrick: he was small for his age, and emotional. He also loathed the idea of dragging people in, or spying on his fellow countrymen—definitely not the most useful profile for a Secret Policeman. And yet, he not only showed a much-higher-than-average intellect, he was also charismatic, a quick learner, free-thinking, empathetic, slightly larcenous, and he retained a propensity for particularly elaborate pranks. He seemed to relish the opportunity to get away with things that he otherwise wouldn’t have, based purely off his preternatural ability to bullshit his way out of nearly anything. Patrick would have made a particularly good salesman. Hell, he would have made an incredible actor.

  Most of these attributes were serious warning signs to the Secret Police. Luckily, all of the attributes were perfect for the intelligence services. Thus, less than a week after failing the Secret Police Academy, he found his way into the HVA-Academy. He eventually graduated with honors two years later. Everyone felt that he would go quite far. This was especially true for his instructors who highly recommended him to Lena’s Grandfather for seasoning. The two made a particularly apt pair, largely due to their love of pranks.

  Unfortunately, the rest of Grandfather’s team found themselves at odds with Patrick more often than otherwise. While Fancy-man and Wart-face were reasonably decent folk when they had to be, preferring a gruff, utilitarian approach, Red-hat and Dragon Lady were just plain awful. And while the latter two were unapologetic sadists, nearly all the HVA-agents were usurious at best and thuggish at their core.

  Like many new intelligence agents, Patrick envisioned a world where he would be rappelling into danger and sneaking about, collecting sensitive information, and toppling governments behind the scenes without leaving a trace. Instead, he found himself in the real world of hookers, drug-running, blackmail, extortion, and often worse. Sure, all of this might have sounded fantastic to the casual observer (especially those with no respect for the law to begin with); yet when experienced first-hand, it was just…filthy.

  Patrick had made the mistake of second-guessing it all early on, outside of the protective blanket that Grandfather afforded. Red-hat and Dragon Lady (especially her) had been swift to sniff out his w
eakness. The next thing he knew, he was being carted around and abused like a common asset anytime they could get away with it. It wasn’t that they wanted to expunge him from their ranks—no, he was their entertainment. And while Fancy-man demanded some semblance of order, and Wart-face had a limit to how much ‘playtime’ they could exact, really, Dragon Lady and Red-hat just had a way of giving him the short end of the proverbial (and apparently not-so-proverbial) stick.

  Soon enough, Patrick saw things the same way that Lena did: the HVA were a bunch of debauched villains that he should be rid of as soon as possible. Perhaps this was why Grandfather had seen fit to put the two of them together. Maybe Patrick could finally perform what he envisioned to be real intelligence work, and Lena could finally escape the GDR, if only for a few moments. It was Grandfather’s best shot at not only ensuring that they both safely returned, but that they were reasonably happy to do so. As much as could be expected, anyway.

  Of course, her band was none the wiser. She wasn’t even sure if they had the capacity to smell a rat even if she laid it out right in front of them. They were positively enamored to just be crossing the Wall, going on a great adventure. Perhaps it wouldn’t have even taken that. Maybe a short trip to any state in the Soviet Bloc would likely have satiated their desires. She didn’t have to exert any real effort in pleasing them. You know, let them out into the yard to pee every morning, keep the bowl full of kibbles, and throw a bone around every now and then to keep them slobbering and happy.

  Not that she viewed them as stooges, per se, they just had their simple little views of the world, with their simple little goals: be a band…rock out…blah blah blah. It was the same crap as everyone else she had ever known, “Do these people ever grow up?” she would often think to herself. On occasion, she would even begrudge them their simplicity and resent their small-minded dreams.

  “You used to feel the same way.” Patrick had been quick to remind her, “It was only once we showed you how big the world really was that you decided you wanted a bigger piece of it.”

  He told the truth, no doubt; yet it was perhaps worse than that. She had to admit it (in her most honest of hours) that as much as she hated the GDR, the Stasi, the HVA and anything having to do with this realm of evil…it had opened her eyes. They hadn’t just shown her the terrible wonders of the underworld; they had been her passport, permission slip and plane ride to the promise of sheer possibility—her one-way ticket to midnight. As much as she despised it all, and as much as she missed the simplicity of the old days when Pandora’s Box still lay closed, she couldn’t dare look back.

  As difficult as it was, she vowed to never forget the events at the Metropol, and all the debauchery it contained that she so desperately wanted to forget. It had been much easier to remember the month that followed. And now she was here, with the bright lights, brighter neon, fluorescent advertisements promising that the sounds emanating from the buildings they attached to (along with their shyster origins) were indeed a thing to behold if you dared—and Lena was beginning to dare. She would never forget the horror of her newfound purview, nor could she relinquish the mystery and excitement of it all. As long as she lived, she could never un-know and never un-see. She could never shrink it all back to its original size.

  “Thish is fucking incredible!” Jakob slurred at no one in particular, as he drank his five-thousandth beer that night.

  The touring van had pulled up outside a large, older brick building with a colorful smattering of graffiti. The building only ‘looked’ old though—Lena knew a rock staple when she saw it. This building was designed to carefully maintain its air of preserved history. The yellow windows were reinforced for sound, and the lights outside were bright with modernity, despite their fashionable vintage look. Layers of posters and flyers stapled to even more layers underneath covered every inch of the sides of the front doors. These doors barred passage where hundreds (if not thousands) of Berliners awaited admission.

  Jakob had been excited for most of his adult life, and the trip to the West had only seen his eyes widen further with prospects for the future. But when the van pulled up outside of the venue, and saw the marquee which read: “The Dead Weights; featuring GDR ‘Mad Bunny’ mit Nicht Zustimmen”…Jakob looked close to soiling himself with giddiness.

  “Jakob, calm yourself.” Vivika spoke with an annoyed tone. Although Lena noticed that she too was becoming slightly giddy.

  “Shpeak for your fucking shelf, lady!” Jakob slurred, “Thesh fuckersh’s all here to shee us!”

  “I think they’re here to see The Dead Weights.” Vortecx cut in.

  “And the Mad Bunny, don’t forget.” Vivika teased.

  “I don’t think anyone is here to see me.” Lena responded humbly. But she knew the truth better than they did.

  Grandfather’s emissaries at Little John had done their due diligence shaking hands at the venue with overt promotion, bribery and otherwise. Not only had she made it onto the marquee herself, but the crowd titillated with stories of who the ‘Mad Bunny’ really was. Not only had she apparently made it across the wall—to hear the stories, she had practically garroted a guard or two doing it. She wasn’t just punk rock royalty from the East; she was a ghost story for the youth of the West. Not a word of it was believable, yet the fact that it was on the radio made it as real as it could be. Whether she was an assassin/ghost/schizo/rocker or not, it didn’t matter. She was a walking hype machine. There was a damn good reason it was her and Nicht Zustimmen: because ‘just Nicht Zustimmen’ wouldn’t have made it onto the same marquee as the Perverted Prince himself and his band of British hooligans.

  “Oh sure, they’r’ll here to shee you!” Jakob spat into his beer, as he continued to press his face against it, “The Mad fucking Bunny, and her band; thas’ what thish all is!”

  “Hey, it got us here, didn’t it?” Vivika defended Lena.

  “Jakob!” Vortecx interjected, “We’re all a team, here!”

  “Yeah, a fuckin’ team!” Jakob spat some more as he downed his beer and reached for another, “A perfect team we are. Jusht look at thish crowd!”

  Lena didn’t want to say anything. She couldn’t blame her band for being a bit jealous of her fame—never mind what it had taken for her to acquire it. Yet, she did have to passingly note that Jakob had become more aggressive than usual since making it over the wall. Drinking too much was his normal state, but even with that in mind, he wasn’t handling alcohol nearly as well as he normally did.

  The little touring van pulled around the corner of the building into a parking lot, and backed in towards the loading area. As they backed in, she noticed the massive bus in the corner of the parking lot. It was ineffectively gated off with ropes and stanchions to hold back a more-than-fledgling flock of scantily clad women who paid the restriction no mind at all. They were flailing their arms and flitting about the door, as if hoping to charm it open with their amply-displayed bosoms. The bus was modern, and hummed loudly with the air-conditioning that kept the on-board living quarters at the perfect temperature. Yet the exterior looked as if it had been painted by a street-artist who snorted everything placed in front of him without question. It was instantly recognizable, if for no other reason than the words, ‘The Dead Weights’ prominently emblazoned on the side.

  “Jusht look’t’ll the fuckin’ ladies!” Jakob spat at no one in particular.

  “Calm down, you moron!” Vivika hollered in his ear, “They aren’t here to see you! Just focus, would you please?”

  “Yeah, this is our big night!” Vortecx joined in, “We have to make sure everything is perfect. We want to come back soon, you know?”

  “Aw, to hell with you!” Jakob growled, “I should go introduce myself!”

  “You absolutely should not.” Vortecx demanded before turning to ‘Victor’ and pleading, “Victor! Tell Jakob to knock it off and settle down!”

  “I…uh...
” Victor stammered, “Jakob…perhaps…uh...”

  “Oh what are you gonna do about it?!” Jakob yelled at him.

  “...w-well I s-suppose...” Victor replied meekly.

  Lena took note of him with surprise. Sure, Patrick was playing a part; but perhaps he could play a part that was just a little bit more assertive. Especially now that Jakob was pounding against the window and sloshing his beer everywhere. This was, far and away, the most intoxicated that they had ever seen him.

  “Victor, say something!” Vortecx continued.

  “Jakob,” Vivika threatened, “if you don’t settle down, I swear I will...”

  “You will what? Tell my mommy on me, will you? Call the fuckin’ Shtasi and have them lock me up?”

  “N-no, Jakob...” Vivika backed off, slightly.

  “What is your problem?!” Lena finally snapped, “Jakob, you need to settle down. We have to make a good first impression and then we have to load in and sound check everyone. We...”

  “We?!” Jakob howled, punching the window, “What do ye mean we?! This ish your show! Why don’t you go do your own shoundcheck!”

  “Would you please...”

  “No, I won’t ‘please’! Fuck all of you! Thish ish my first time outshide of the wall, and damned if your gonna ruin all my fun!”

  “Victor, do something!” Vivika shouted, to no avail.

  Jakob, red-faced and sideways, slid open the door to the touring bus and stumbled out. He fell at first, and then fell again as he attempted to stand up. After several attempts at righting himself, he finally managed to calibrate his inner compass and bolt in an all-out sprint. He did so across the parking lot towards the large throbbing mob of women who danced to at least three completely separate beats and genres.

  “A real help you were, Victor!” Vivika chastised him.

 

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