Talkin ‘BoutJune 26, 2012 at 10:25 PM | Posted in Fiction | Leave a comment
Tags: flash fiction, songs and music, the future
I had to go back and look at the details, to make sure I did it right. Yep. Chuck said go to a certain website that would automatically generate some band names, pick one, and write a story about the band. I did that. Further deposition ye shall not receive.
To read more stories like it and find the band name generator, go on tour at this venue:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: That’s My New Band Name
Rhino Voyeur had just come off the stage and Wicked Caustic was setting up. Killjoy Lovejoy sat by himself in the Green room, brooding. It had been for stylistic purposes; now it was part of their contract. The rest of the band was helping themselves to the smorgasbord of food, alcohol, and groupies.
Sid Fantastic, the vocalist, sat down next to Killjoy with a sammich in one hand a groupie in the other. “Groupie?”
She was a sweet, innocent, and not-at-all virginal 28-year old. Being the sensitive type, she knew what Killjoy needed. As she lifted his kilt, she said, “Tell me a story.”
“Tell them about the last Woodstock!” That was Feetfluffin, the band’s bass air-guitarist.
“Fine. Back during The War—“
“You were in The Revolution?” she asked.
“Shut up. No. Like all good freeloaders, I abhor violence because I don’t wanna get hurt, and I don’t cling to any beliefs strongly enough to fight for them. During The War—probably 2029 or so—I holed up with a bunch of PETA freaks in the mountains, but I hiked my shit out of there when they became cannibals.”
“I learned about that in hist-“
Killjoy shot her a dirty look; she kept quiet and resumed what she was doing.
“Goddamn starving vegetarians are too good to eat animals. But don’t go to sleep, because those fuckers are ruthless.” Killjoy lifted his leg, mostly bare because of the kilt and the blowjob. Below the knee his leg was titanium and plastic–and gravel, because it was hard to clean. “By this time the war was winding down, and the Great Migration was taking place. I came down from the mountains to see hordes—just thousands and thousands of liberals—everywhere, that had come from all over the country to settle here.”
Other groupies that didn’t currently have something in their mouths ooh’ed and aah’ed appreciatively. “They were essentially rudderless, with nothing to guide them but their talking points and their GPS. But they had nowhere to go.
“Back then I gave a shit, and was more energetic. I figured there was a way to make some dough—“
“Uh, yeah. Bread. Cash. No? Shit, what was it called…Money! You’ve heard about money, right?”
One girl said, “Yeah, we’ve *heard* of it–”
“Well, I’m too drunk and I’m getting blown so I can’t really explain it. But it was important, and people wanted it. I started to herd people towards Central California, to the coast.”
“Hush! Don’t give it away; this is my rambling story. I thought the best way to get people together was with music. I could play guitar, a little—“
More appreciative noises. “A real guitar?”
“Yes. A real one. On the way I met Sid and Feetfluffin, who were actual musicians, and also—“
The bandmates reverently touched their hand to their forehead and then their balls, the salute of fallen comrades.
“Sam Fucking Jones.”
Sam Fucking Jones, one of the greatest drummers of the twenty-first century. Like all of the greats, he lived hard and died young. One morning he went out parasail-fishing to catch a killer whale, with explosives strapped to his body. One of the greatest percussionists of his time, with an innate grasp of rhythm and tempo nevertheless could not make the correlation between using himself as bait and what would be his messy and ridiculous death.
Because he succeeded, there was no way to separate man from whale except with a strainer. The urn with his ashes is a 55-gallon drum that sits on stage with the band.
“People continued to follow us, not knowing where we were going. Liberals are easily led. We made vague promises, like, ‘Almost there,’ and ‘Just a little further,’ and “Maybe it’s the next exit.’
“Eventually we made it to San Francisco—“
“And bloody San Francisco wasn’t there! I didn’t know that! I’d been up in the mountains fending off fucking vegetarian cannibals. Somebody should have said something—“
Feetfluffin said, “Dude, you never told us anything! It was a secret, like a quest or some shit.”
“Whatevs. It was serendipitous anyway. Because San Francisco had been destroyed early in the war, it had mostly gone back to nature and was very park-like, except for the piles of bodies and the radioactivity.
“By then, all the people were ready to turn on us, so—it was Sam’s idea—we tell them we’re going to have a concert. A New Woodstock!”
Sid added, “That part was actually pretty easy. Statistically, in any large group of aimlessly wandering nomads, there are going to be a certain percentage of out-of-work musicians.”
Killjoy continued, “I don’t know about the math, but…yeah, it came together pretty organically. And that’s the story of the Revolutionary Woodstock. There were two million people over the course of a week, and only, like…less than ten thousand people died.”
A stagehand caught Killjoy’s attention. He stood up. “Well, I hate to be a killjoy—“
Sid and Feetfluffin did as well. “We about to go on?”
“Yeah.” Sid opened himself up to embrace the energy from the audience. “Ah…the fans. I love the fans!”
One of the groupies there said, “Excuse me—Mr. Sid? I’ve heard that–‘fans.’ What is that? Like a groupie?”
“Well, sorta, yeah. Fans are great. They come to all your shows, follow you on tour, buy your merch, wear your shirts—”
“That’s what we do!”
“Oh, no, hon. Fans do all of that, and we need millions of ‘em.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Groupies do that too…but also let us come in their mouths. We can only handle so many groupies.” That brought a smile to her face.
Killjoy said, “If you have only one groupie, she’s your girlfriend.”
“It’s a fine line, bro.”
The lights went down, the crowd cheered. An announcer said, “Are you ready, people? Are you ready? Put your hands and feet together for Decadent Squat!”