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“There’s the three-day nonstop revival,” said Serge.
“We do need grace,” said Zargoza.
“I have si
They pulled off the causeway into a sea of cars parked outside an auditorium bathed in floodlights. Inside, the show was in full swing, the man on the stage talking fast, stiff-arming people in the forehead, knocking them over. His burly assistants/bouncers worked the crowd with collection baskets. Zargoza hung back at the rear of the hall, but Serge grabbed Le
The preacher had already selected a group of twelve, but Serge and Le
“And what is your name, my brother?”
“Serge.”
“And what is your affliction?”
“I’m crazy.”
The preacher started to ask another question but thought better of it and skipped to Le
“And what is your name, my brother?”
“Le
“And what is your affliction.”
“I have a problem with weed.”
The preacher raised an arm to the crowd and bellowed into the microphone, “He has a problem with the evil weed, tobacco!”
“No, preach, I mean pot,” said Le
“He has a problem with the demon weed mareeee-juana!”
“Well, I wouldn’t really say demon.”
“He is caught in the fangs of dope! He wants to rid himself forever of its scourge!”
“Actually, I just want to cut down,” Le
The preacher furrowed his brow at Le
“Do you believe in the power of the one true living God?”
“Yes!” the group said together.
“Do you reject Satan and all his works?”
“Yes!” the group said again.
“Yes!” said Serge. “Except for Led Zeppelin’s fourth album.”
The preacher glared at Serge.
Serge shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a classic.”
Large hands grabbed Serge and Le
Zargoza made a break from the back of the auditorium for the parking lot, and he already had the car in the circular drive when the doors burst open and Serge and Le
O n the other side of town, at the studios of the Florida Cable News network, Blaine Crease was summoned by the news director for an emergency three-A.M. meeting.
Correspondent Blaine Crease was the undisputed journalistic star of the upstart news network. He was brilliant with delivery, big on flash, short of facts, reckless with accuracy and destined to go places. As the newest network on the block, FCN needed to grab attention, and Crease was their guy. A former stunt man, he reported every story as if danger were all around. He was the master of the “newsman as fearless participant” feature story. He went on SWAT team raids, got in the tank with killer whales, threatened to fistfight murderers during jailhouse interviews, rappelled from small buildings, and ate with a large fork from the latest lot of recalled food.
Crease often appeared on camera scuffed up, bruised and bleeding, usually because he had rolled himself on the ground just before going on the air. If the story lacked drama, he’d set up a wind machine just off camera. It could be a piece about geranium season, but Crease would be leaning into the wind, fighting for balance to hold the pose that made his hair look dashing in a gale. He wore combat fatigues, flak jackets and helmets whenever it was u
Consequently, Crease was beside himself when the news director of FCN called him into the office in the middle of the night and gave Crease the assignment he’d been waiting for all his life.
“Good, glad to hear it,” said the news director. He left the room and returned shortly with a small metal cage.
“What’s that?” said Crease.
“You’re taking Toto along.”
“Like hell I am! It’s demeaning! I’m the star of this network!”
“Now you listen to me!” said the director. “You may be the highest-rated human on the network, but this dog butters our bread… Catch!” The director threw a box of liver snaps hard into Blaine ’s chest.
20
Zargoza roared up in his BMW just as the bouncers tossed Serge and Le
“You’re right about Zeppelin’s fourth album,” Zargoza told Serge. “It rules.”
Serge launched into air guitar of the album’s first cut, “Black Dog.” Zargoza joined in playing drums on the steering wheel. Le
“Hey, hey, mama said the way you move-go
Serge made guitar sounds with his mouth and Zargoza pounded on the wheel.
“…been so long since I found out, what people mean by dinin’ out!”
Serge resumed the scorching guitar part again, but Zargoza had a fu
“Whoa! Whoa! Stop it! Hold the fuckin’ train!”
The others fell quiet.
“What was that?” Zargoza asked Le
“What?”
“That lyric. Did you say ‘what people mean by dinin’ out’?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not how it goes.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t you boob. It’s down and out.”
“No it isn’t,” said Le
“What kind of shithead are you?” said Zargoza. “Jimmy Page is choppin’ the most savage guitar licks ever laid down, and you think Plant is singing about not getting out to White Castle enough?”
“I didn’t give it much thought,” said Le
“It’s down and out!” said Zargoza. “He’s talkin’ about the struggle of the common man!”
“Now I’m hungry,” said Le
“Me too,” said Zargoza. “Let’s find a place.”
Le
Le
He took another hit.
“Why do they say the drinks are king-size, like that’s the biggest possible comparison. Look at Prince Charles-no superlatives spring to mind there,” said Le
“What the fuck’s he talking about?” Zargoza asked Serge.
“Free-associating,” said Serge. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Verbal incontinence. Just vomiting words.”
“When does it stop?” asked Zargoza.
“It doesn’t,” said Serge. “Not without intervention.”
Zargoza glanced back at Le
Serge turned around and gave Le
“That should do it,” said Serge. “He’ll go on an introspective journey now. But be prepared. We may hear weeping.”
Zargoza rolled up to the menu board. The small metal speaker came on. “May I take your order?”
“Yes,” said Zargoza. “I’d like your mega-combo meal…number twelve. Do I get the Galactic Massacre playing pieces with that?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay, and I’ll take the extra-crunchy fried chicken skin on a stick…”
Le