Author: Servo Blue
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ============= I don't think I have one this time, except that I'm sorry I've taken such an inexcuseable absence from the story. Please continue reading it if you liked it when it was a flowing tale, and keep in mind that it will commence its fluid motion starting now. Maybe not so fast as before, but not at all slow.
--Servo Blue
DISCLAIMER: ========== Hey, it's been forever. Just enjoy the story. Please.
The Out-Crowd ===========
Part 17: Where The Story Starts To Start
Upon my arrival in the kitchen the next morning, and after standing up and pushing the dog to one side, I exchanged hellos with my parents. Mom, in her usual morning post against the counter by the stove, drinking her coffee, and Dad, at his, transformed again to a creature with a hexilateral head coverd in small black tattoos. With a sudden "mmm", like she just bit her tongue or something, Mom turned and handed me a letter from yesterday's mail that was sitting behind her.
"You got a letter yesterday," she said, handing me the envelope. "I forgot to tell you about it, I was running around so much it just slipped my mind."
"A letter," I stated, as I tore the thing to peices trying to open it. Appearantly the joker who sent it used rubber cement to seal it instead of the customary "lick-and-stick" method.
I opened it up, albeit after several minutes of seeing how to shread the envelope and keep the letter in tact, but once managed, the message was this:
Dear Polka Man,
Hey, buddy boy, what's it like in Californ-i-a? The band just isn't the same w/o ya. Heck, WE aren't the same. But don't worry, I'm just saying that there seems to be a huge weight lifted from our shoulders. You were a real drag, ya know that?
Just kidding, pal. Seriously, though, your pressence is duely missed. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a 17-year-old accordianist? Darn near impossible. "The Avon Pirates" and "Ironface Pete" just don't sound the same at all, so we don't perform them anymore--least not until you get your ass back here.
And speaking of which, we have a proposition for ya: we talked to all of our parents, and they all agreed that since we have our Christmas break coming up in December, that part of our collective pressents could be three of us coming out to see ya. But only if your folks say "yes". Tell them to say "yes", man. If they don't, just hide them somewhere where they can't escape, and then say they said "yes". Arthur Lindstrom's Fizzling Cue Ball
must collaborate once again. As a whole, man.
O.K., there's the solemn part, now the catch-up:
Stylo carved a weasel out of a chunk of soapstone. (shrug)
Rhythm finally reaslised that he wasn't a pussy, and is currently dating a lovely little number you may recall as Stacey Hoover.
The infamous Steve-O Callinivo got his arm broken after plummeting from a crooked tree into the rocky waters below. O.K., so he fell out of a dead tree into that stream behind his house, the one with the little pebbles and junk.
Ramrod finally got Red Alert painted at the shop. Yes sir, that car is one awesome-looking fire cheif. Well, fake fire cheif, anyway. Cost him around $600, like I said it would. Anywhere down there to get your car painted? It'd kinda suck having to drive it all the way up here just for that.
Anyway, everybody else is just about the same as when you left, except you're not here. Hope to see ya 'round December.
Your fearless leader,
Wheeljack
O.K., this was very cool, because these guys were the best people on Earth. Serious. Your friends are nothing compared to them. Trust me, I know. I've met your friends. You can do better.
Anyway, the after my parents clarified that their hearts were not made of stone, I was happy all day, a stupid grin plastered to my face due to the excitement of my friends coming to see me in a few months.
Well, Friday rolled around, and with it, Friday night. Wally and Shelby had gone to Milo's place with Wally's Uncle's truck, and were taking Shelby's car to the Battleground. This was nearly an all-night thing, as the Battleground was fairly out of the way. Kate was at Micheal's house trying to talk to him about his recent lunatic ramblings, which just sounded funny at the time. But, "funny" in a "glad somebody else has to do it" kinda way. Mikro and I were at work for about two hours, as per usual, and Killer and Juke had come in to replace us. I had nothing to do that night, but Mikro had some hot date or something, so he had to split. I'd gone over to Jer's house, but we were just sitting there in the living room, staring at the floor, trying to think of something to do. This was not fun.
"Soooo....what are we doing?" asked Jeremy, petting the gray and white cat that was curled up in his lap.
"I told you, I don't know what there is to do around here," I said.
"Oh yeah," he said, as if he just remembered.
After another eternal minute, I looked up and asked, "Did you ever say if you can play any instruments?"
"Well, I have a guitar that my dad got for me a while ago, but I failed severely at trying to play it."
"O.K.," I said, "Go get it."
"Why?" he asked, rising and receiving a glare from the disturbed feline.
"You're going to learn it," I told him, and he gave me an odd look as he disappeared down the hall. He returned and handed me an acoustic guitar. I strummed it once and winced in pain. I took a good five minutes and tuned it, strummed it again, and sighed happily at the pleasant sound.
"You ever learn anything on this?" I asked him, quietly picking a slow tune.
"Nothin'," he said. "Tried for a while, got frustrated and quit."
"Oh, that's the spirit," I said. "Well, I'm going to show you just how easy it is to play a guitar," I said, smiling.
"Oh, are you?" he smiled back.
"Yes, my friend, I am," I said, adjusting my fingers, recalling the chords for one of my favorite songs. "and I'm gonna show you with a little song called 'Better Than I Am', by a favorite group of mine called Three Dead Trolls In A Baggie."
"Oh, my god," he said, covering his face with his left hand.
"Just listen," I said, getting the rhythm right. After the intro chords, I sang the odd little love song:
"I love you 'cause you're scared of me,
I love you 'cause you're meek,
I love you 'cause you're insecure,
Unconfidant and weak,
Some people say it's a powertrip,
But I don't give a damn,
I love you 'cause you make me feel,
Much better than I am.
I love you 'cause you worry,
You're always taking pills,
You always watch the evening news,
And it always gives you chills,
I love you 'cause you're shaking,
And 'cause you're always tense,
Compared to you, I'm Mr. Cool,
Professor Confidence.
My Momma taught me long ago,
'Remember this one thing:
Surround yourself with losers
So that you can be their king,
And if you choose to fall in love,
Pick someone with a curse,
'Cause no matter how bad you may feel,
She'll always feel much worse.'
I love you 'cause you're scared of me,
I love you 'cause you're meek,
I love you 'cause you're insecure,
Unconfidant and weak,
Some people say it's a powertrip,
But I don't give a damn,
I love you 'cause you make me feel,
Much better than I am.
So throw those self-help books away,
And that subliminal tape,
You're overweight--but that's O.K.!
C'mon and have another cake,
Oh, I will be your better half,
And you can be my worse,
I'm goin' drinkin' baby,
So I took some money from your purse.
I love you 'cause you're scared of me,
I love you 'cause you're meek,
I love you 'cause you're insecure,
Unconfidant and weak,
Some people say it's a powertrip,
But I don't give a damn,
I love you 'cause you make me feel,
Like you are pork and I am veil,
Like I'm the fortune and you're the wheel,
Like you're the Captain and I'm Teneil,
I love you cause you make me feel,
Much better than I am."
"Looks pretty easy," he said, laughing.
"Yeah, I bet," I said, laying the guitar on the floor beside my chair. "So, where is your dad?" I asked. I probably shouldn't have, judging by the sudden drop in his energy level. He slumped in his chair and looked at the floor again.
"My dad's a trucker. He works through some company that just tells him, 'hey, you're takin' this here' and he has to go. It's never the same thing, either, or the same place. And it always seems to take longer to get his jobs done. I never get to see him anymore."
"I see," I said, filling the break in his monologue.
"I also find this topic very depressing, even though he'll be home Sunday, so how 'bout we go back to happy-talk?" he said, a smile returning to his face.
"Happy is good," I replied. "Speaking of happy," I said, moving to sit on the floor in front of him, "My buds from Ohio sent me a letter and are gonna see about coming over here around December."
"This sounds like a happy thing," he said.
"So much so," I said, smiling up at him.
"You know you're really cute when you're bored?" he asked, slightly squinting the sparkly emeralds in his head.
"I don't know about that," I said, shying away from the remark. "I couldn't even hope for cute next to a sample of perfection such as you."
Hehe, I told ya I was terrible.
"You are awful at your pick-up lines," he said, shaking his head and grinning as he came to his feet, tossing the cat to the side. He reached for my hands and as he did so, his mother came out of her room where she was watching "the game". Whatever. Anyway, as she made her way through the room, he extended a hand and helped me to my feet.
"What are you guys going to do tonight?" she asked, heading into the kitchen.
"Casey is spending the night," said Jeremy, leading me by the hand down the hall.
"Do his parents know this?" she asked, retrieving a flat package of microwave popcorn out of a cupboard. When Jeremy only responded to her with a sound that went something like "I-uh-o", I turned, smiled at her and said "I'll call them", just before the door to his room was shut.
"'Casey is spending the night'?" I asked with a smile. He took the guitar from my hands and set it in his closet. Then, with a smile to match mine, he came over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist, saying, "Well, I had to think on my feet."
"Well," I said, pulling him even closer, "It seems clear that your lines are better than mine."
"O.K., first of all, quit with the accent," she said, running her hands through her longish, brown hair. "Secondly, slow down, and start over."
"Look, I'm sorry about the accent, but I forget sometimes and it just creeps up on me. And you better listen, young lady, 'cause this is the last time I'm going to tell you this."
It was 6:45, and Micheal had run through the whole scenario thrice, but because he was so flustered and excited, he would trip over his tongue aqnd leave out words--sometimes, whole sentences. On top of that, he was also still using what he called his "British" voice, and before I go on, it seems to me that now is the perfect time to explain this odd little part of the boy. You see, if I'd told you this earlier, it wouldn't have made any sense at all. Not that it makes a ton of sense now, but moreso now than earlier.
Micheal has an English accent. This is common knowledge, and is brought on by the fact that he is, in actuality, English. That being said, you must understand that England has its varieties just as the good ol' US has its. After all, you wouldn't expect a New Yorker to successfully communicate with an Arkansas boy, now would you? No, I should think not. Well, just as these two parts of a country sound entirely different, so do the different parts of England. Micheal, as previously stated, is from Bolton. However, the accent that everyone hears from him is an exageration; it's really more the tone you'd hear from the upperclass snooty types. Basically, Hollywood British.
Now, back to the point of what I started with, they were sitting in that wonderfully cozy den of his, each on either end of the couch. Micheal had tried three times to be clear on this, and he was going to have to try one last time to get it through.
"I've met this kid," he started, slowly and accentless. "His name is Vlad."
"Interesting name," Kate commented.
"Look, you silly person, I'm trying to do this as easily as possible, and interruptions aren't going to help. Anyway, he's an exchange student, so he's a foreigner, like me. Well, not really like me, because he's from Romania and I'm from England. And I'm not a foreigner, either, 'cause I've got a green card. And I live here now. So I guess he's not like me at all, but it sounded good in my head right before I started talking."
At this point, he looked up from the floor which had stolen his gaze the minute he'd gone off on his little tangent, and saw the glazed-over look in Kate's eyes.
"O.K., moving right along, I spoke with him a few times, and the other day, he made mention of the fact that I'm the first person to talk to him since that bastard Rudy started it around that Vlad is a druggie. But the reason he looks so dead all of the time is because of a horrid case of insomnia that's been bugging him for about 30 weeks or so."
"Uh-huh," she said, aknowleding that she'd absorbed that much.
"So then I told him about our little gang," he said, plainly enough. "I told him that I'd toss the idea around and see what everyone thought about having a new Out-Crowder around."
"I see."
"And I told him that if he doesn't like us and would rather stay a friendless loner, that'd be fine by us and no offense taken anywhere, but that we were definitely not going to just pitch him out because our entire base is the fact that we've already BEEN thrown out."
"Mmm."
After a pause in which they just stared at each other, Micheal brought her back to the conversation.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
"Sounds good to me," she said. "Now how 'bout poppin' in that movie you promised me?"
"No problem," he said, taking 'Cemetary Man' out of the movie case and pop it into the VCR. "This one should confuse you terribly," he said with an evil grin, sitting back against the couch. "Oh, and one more thing," he said looking at her, his smile dropping. "He's got a nickname that Rudy made up for him."
"And that is?" she asked. He paused for a moment, then looked her dead in the eye.
"They call him Zombie."
Shelby's car's engine rumbled loudly as he backed it away from the tailgate end of the pickup. It was black, with a sneering skull airbrushed on the hood, a spine down the roof and trunk lid, and ribs coming down from the roof and over the doors. The number was 206, and the name, in a semi elipse above the giant skull, was Vertebreaker. He backed it across the Battleground until it was only a few feet away from Wally's car, and then shut it down before walking back to the truck. Wally was placing the tow bar in the bed as Shelby arrived, walking around to the passenger side.
"If it wasn't so dark out, I'd suggest we play around a little while," said Wally, opening the driver door.
"Yeah," said Shelby, entering his side of the cab. "It would've been nice to mess around again. But," he added, as they pulled out and back onto the road, "I guess I can save my fun for later."
On that note, they drove on for quite a while in silence. Shelby was out in his brain thinking about nothing, Wally was trying to figure out what Shelby just ment, and the radio was broken.
"You do know we still like you, right?" Wally asked, glancing quickly at Shelby, then back to the raod. Shelby looked up at him then through the windshield.
"Is that so?" he asked, timidly, and locked his sights on the floor.
"We never really quit," said Wally, the faintest of smiles on his face. "In fact, I never quit thinking that you'd come back someday. I never thought it'd be quite in this fashion, but it works."
He shot a quick smile in Shelby's direction, but seeing him as bothered as he was, he thought he'd try again, and after a deep sigh, he did.
"So how's Lor?" he asked.
"She's fine," answered Shelby. "Her dad still kinda thinks I'm weird, but that's O.K. with me. They're still pretty cool."
"So you two got a lot of catchin' up to do, huh?"
"I guess, yeah."
"Then why didn't she come with us?"
Oddly enough, Wally didn't realizes what he was about to say, and the instant after he said that, he had the exact same 'Oh, shit' look on his face as Shelby. Slowly they looked at each other, then back out to the oncoming world.
"Do--" started Shelby, but Wally stopped him.
"Don't go there. Just forget I said that. I'm sorry."
"But what if you're right, I mean it's been a long ti--"
"I said stop it, you'll just jinx yourself."
They sat there, slient again, for the remainder of the trip, Shelby lost in his brain again and Wally wishing that he'd found a better topic to work on.
Saturday morning, and Juke pulled into the parking lot of the Full Deck. Milo and Steiny were there, standing beside their vehicles, staring ahead at their building. Juke found this terribly odd, as they usually had the place up and running when he got their. Then he saw Killer standing with them, a look of total anger on his face. Juke pulled up a few rows behind them, parked his car, and stepped out. It was at this point that Juke was struck with the reality of what they were staring at. He almost passed out from the shock of it. The Full Deck had been nearly burnt down. Almost staggering, he made his way over to the others.
"It's my fault, Juke," said Killer.
"It's not your fault," said Milo.
"But it IS," said Killer, facing Milo, then he turned back to Juke. "Steiny had gone home early, nobody was here. It was about midnight, a little before, and I decided to leave. I shut everything down, came out front, locked the front door, turned around and BAM: I get slugged in the face. Just like that! Then two of them pick me up and drag me out in the parking lot and three more start throwin' these fuckin'...oh, what're they called...molotov cocktails! These psychos had molotov cocktails, and they were just throwin' 'em in!"
"That doesn't make it your fault, little man," said Steiny.
"Well, I didn't help any!" said Killer.
"This is true, but you also didn't hurt any, so calm yourself." Steiny ordered. Juke jabbed Killer in the shoulder to get his attention then shot through a blaze of signs.
"No, they were wearin' ski masks and I didn't recognize any voices or anything. God, how fuckin' cliche is this?"
"For the last time, Killer, watch your tongue," demanded Milo. "Don't worry, boys. Give us about three months, and we'll have it back and better than ever."
"How can we help?" asked Killer.
"Right now?" asked Milo, looking away from the dead structure for the first time. "Find a new job."
===========================================================================
....To Be Continued....
Yup. Writers' Block, bigtime. Don't worry, and please don't be pissed about the wait, but a lot of pressure on a lot of stuff lately. Again, I'm sorry.
The next editions will be much, MUCH faster than this, but not daily, by any means. Please, look past my tardiness.
Any Comments or Criticism go to me at servo_blue@usa.com or Inverse@mindless.com Whatever floats your boat.