Guy in San Blando Chapter 2

TWO.

Seven tacos, three tostadas, a couple of green burritos, a huge taco salad, two orders of extra spicy fajitas, an order of carnitas, about 5 bowls of chips and 3 cups of salsa later, the Flamefarts returned to the Fishwife with one appetite satiated and one bigger appetite growing.  The band got kind of electric an hour or so before playing.  Their conversation buzzed and crackled like high-tension power lines on a misty night.  Their limbs and fingers jumped with anticipation.  They would soon take the stage.  Guy scanned the crowd to see if anyone important might be there.  Ever since he had heard of Roger Pretentious coming to one of their gigs, he was constantly aware of potential.  As he looked at the Fishwife faces, most familiar, some almost familiar, he tried to imagine the faces they would see at The Spot. 

At almost every gig, just before the band would start, an old friend of the band they nicknamed Varmint would seek Guy Madden out, and try to get Guy to agree to let him sing one song.  Guy had acquiesced one time, and Varmint had practically swallowed the microphone.  Now Guy made a kind of game out of coming up with a new and imaginative reason to turn Varmint down each time. 

“You know I got the pipes,” Varmint was saying.  “Come on, man.  My mom might be here tonight!   I wanna sing one for her!”

Guy saw his opportunity.  “Your mom WAS here!”  He said enthusiastically.  “She left!”

Varmint looked more than a little confused.  “My mom?...” 

Guy made an excuse about an imaginary sound check and headed toward the stage.  Varmint went around the room, asking annoyed patrons about his mom.

The Flamefarts started the gig with some sequences Mary had put together, which she was able to start playing via remote control.  There were ambient synth effects, and sound bites from broadcasts, mostly documentaries about war technologies, or from pet food commercials.   The band members were ready with their instruments, but they had hidden themselves away discreetly.  Guy had a speech from a Nightmare on Elm Street movie memorized, and he spoke it ominously, while Mary Dynasty’s audio sequence grew in volume.  At a certain point, the sounds of dogs barking and plane engines would mount, and the band appeared suddenly and exploded into their first song, “Fry My Pork Chop”.  Their followers all knew and loved this one, and everyone was instantly on their feet.  They all sang along with  the chorus of the song which went:

                No more Cheetos

                Ramen ain’t the thing

                Fry my pork chop

                Pig makes a man a king.

Rott had developed a special pyrotechnic stunt for their shows, which half the time ended up catching his pants on fire.  At one point, he had bought what he thought were leather pants, because he thought they would be more flame resistant.  It turned out the pants were made of a cheap vinyl, and at the pyrotechnical moment, his pants had melted.  He wasn’t hurt badly, but the band had many jokes at poor Rott’s expense.  Tonight, though, the pyrotechnic stunt had worked perfectly.  In fact, everything was going perfectly.  The band had really found their groove; they had been playing long enough that they had a near psychic connection on stage.  They made the intense instrumental in the song “Plywood Bride” seem easy.  Igneous’ drum solo in “Skeleton Brain” had some new and really creative stuff that had jaws dropping.  The mix was good; they had their old pal Bob “The Ear” Roberts at the board.  Guy knew the band was hitting its stride, and was the best it could get.  It was time to hit Bigburg.

It was a late night.  Guy, Lump and Mary stopped off at Ice Cream In Your Face (San Blando’s only late night spot) after the show. 

“You guys know where I’m at,” Guy told his band mates.  “The music is what matters to me.”

“Aw, come on now.” Mary Dynasty cut in.  It’s your career, man.  It’s the Marauders.  It’s the playoffs.  Don’t act like that don’t matter to you.”

“Well, yeah, of course.”  Guy said.  “But the bands doin’ great right now.  We gotta keep the momentum.”

“The playoffs and are really only, what, a few weeks?”  Lump said, “Even if we have to take a few weeks off, we’ll get our momentum back.  Don’t sweat it.  Do what you have to do.”

“Thanks.  Hey, it probably won’t be any big deal,”  Guy said.

“No, we want it to be a big deal!” laughed Mary.  “Go Marauders!”

After a gig like this, Guy Madden’s favorite thing to do was to go home, watch whatever was on Cartoon Network, make something to eat and fall asleep on the couch.  This particular night it was a quesadilla.  Guy had brought home a bit of Taco Hole special salsa and dipped his home-burned quesadilla in it.  He was watching an episode of Alien Apes and was asleep before he’d had three bites.  It felt like he had only been asleep for about fifteen minutes when Guy heard his phone ringing.  As he opened his eyes he saw a glimmer of light about him so he knew it was about dawn.  Guy’s phone’s ringtone played Metallica’s “For Whom The Bell Tolls”.  Reaching blindly out to find his phone, his hand found the little bowl of Taco Hole special salsa, and Guy succeeded in dipping all five fingers in it.  “Crap!”  he cursed as he reached for his phone with the other hand.  He used his bottom lip to flip the phone open.

“Hello?” he croaked into the phone.

“Madden? This is Jameson.  “You awake?”

“I guess so. What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this.  Are you ready?  Are you sitting down?”

“What? What’s up?”

“You remember that game that had that ridiculous blown call for the two point conversion?”

“Yeah, of course.  Bolts at the Swashbucklers.  November twenty-seventh, right?”

“You are good.  Well the Swashbucklers win has been rescinded.  It’s been changed in the books to a tie.”

“Holy crap!” Guy barked.  That changes the standings so that the Marauders move up!”

“That’s right!” Jameson exclaimed. “The Marauders have just fallen back-asswards into the playoffs!  We’re going to need you to come in today.  There’s a lot we need to go over.”

Guy had had about three and a half hours sleep, and had awakened using a quesadilla for a pillow.  “I’ll be there in an hour.” He said, and rubbed Taco Hole special salsa into his sleepy eyes.