text: crude language blatant stupidity 1984 We grieve as the 'New Wave' recedes into history, leaving behind nothing but pools of brackish memories. Meanwhile, the wretched 'Big Hair' band grows in pomposity like quaffed dust bunnies. Gone are the 'Police' and 'Cars.' Hello 'Ratt' and 'Poison.' There are many tales of those enchanted times, called by some the 'Camelot' of white pop music. We had it all. Genre Domination. From Devo to Michael Bolton, White Music Reigned Supreme...never mind that scratchy-record urban poetry fad....and that Jackson 5 kid, big deal. And among it all: the 'Wonderful Victims.' A 4-piece, ass kick bar band. We are the foot soldiers of rock and roll. Waging Rock with the night crawlers of the world. Late one Thursday night in an over-sized, matte black club, a stranger approaches our table. He's a tool. Not uncommon. But this guy is a serious asshole. Loud, obnoxious and not cool. "Hey, back off, asshole! Get the fuck outta here... what's that? You're a multi-millionaire and you want to hang out with a rock band? Wally! Get this gentleman a chair! What are we drinking, friend?" Enter Jonathan Beaumont III of Old El Paso. Our new best friend and a really swell guy! He entertains us with mature games: "Hey, Wally! I got a hundred bucks in one hand and a dollar in the other...go ahead, pick one!" "That one." "Here's your dollar, now crawl over here and get it, HA-HA!!!!" Do we stand up for Wally? Call Jonathan out for being a little prick? Fuck no! Why would we mess with our Golden Goose? Besides, we humiliate each other hourly. Then Jonathan makes us an offer we should refuse. He's flying us to El Paso, where we will record a three-song demo at the legendary 'Cera del Oido' Studios. Iconic rock bands such as 'Penile Hell-Mitt' and Country legends like 'Rusty Muffler,' have recorded here. Why is Jonathan doing this to for us? Because he's playing 'Who Wants to be a Big-Shot Producer for a Day.' But first, to prove he's Rad, he rents a car and takes us on a misguided tour of the Dumpsters of El Paso. ‘Accidentally’ ramming into random trash bins, reducing the hapless Honda to piece-of-shit status. Of course, he returns to the 'Beaumont Car Rental,' demanding a car that isn't all fucked up. And on the third night, we fly to Paris in his private jet piloted by Lance? Nope. We pile into his fifteen-year-old Cessna...with Jonathan behind the stick. He's taking us on a birds-eye tour of Greater El Paso, reminding me of that scary Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. Are we idiots? Yes, we are. It's just not right. I can see the headlines of the El Paso Gazette: GRUESOME CRASH SCENE PLANE NOSE DIVES INTO SEWAGE PLANT KILLING 5 ONBOARD PILOT MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES UNSCATHED The Bar Band world was mildly shocked by the somewhat tragic deaths of Rodrigo, Lorenzo, Armando, and Frank, along with roadie/sound man Wally and his talking horny toad, ‘Fluffy.’ The 'Wonderful Victims' perished in a not-cool aerial mishap. A single-engine Cessna registered to 'Beaumont Acquisitions, LLC,' plunged into 'Beaumont's Turd Wurks.' The cause of death is yet to be determined. "They were either burnt to an agonizing crisp or suffered fecal suffocation. Observed the County Coroner. Night club owner REDACTED commented: "I can't believe it! I was with them last week at 'Poopsie's Place' enjoying a round of Lemon Drops! Those guys sucked! I have a reputation to uphold! And they weren't equitable. Now they're sucking in Hell...sniff, Gimme another toot!" According to record producer Sycho P: "Devastated, is all I can say! We had just finished a grueling 5 hour high-hat session and were taking a well-deserved break. But thank God I captured Rodrigo's last cymbal solo, possibly the best triplet sequence ever recorded..." The lone survivor of the deadly crash, zany billionaire Jonathan Beaumont III, known as the 'Texas Tool,' was held briefly by police. He was released into the custody of his father, Sir James Beaumont Esq., the founder and CEO of 'Sir Beaumont's Custom Rubbish Receptacles.' "We were just having fun!" Jonathan protested. "You know...Rock Star Stuff! We're Rebels, maann!! We're Irrelevarent! We do things our way! So don't start digging what we're trying to say! What? Shut the fuck up? OK...sorry, officer, it's just that I was born to be wild, and I'm a true nature child... 'scuse me? Really shut the fuck up, or you're gonna bitch slap me to the ground? Just tell you the facts, man? OK...I was just messing with them, you know, 'cause I'm a rebel, and I never ever do what I should and...Ow! Hey, Man, that hurt...Aarrg! OWOWOW, you just kicked me in the ba... Eeoww...let go of my... Waaa, PaPa!...he pumfed me inna mouf...ith my wip thwollen? I gave the thtick to Fwank, and wet him fwy the pwane, jutht for fun! I thought Fwank wath joking when he thtarted thcreaming;" "Don’t Do This To Me, Jonathan! I don't wanna fly the plane!!” “They were thcreaming from the back theat.” “Yeah!!! Don’t let Frank Fly the Fucking Plane!!!!” It wath Fwank’th fauwt, PaPa! I wathn’t even dwiving! They made me do it... waaa...?” That’s how it happened in the Other World. In this world, we survive the scary plane ride and let Jonathan decide our next adventure. Viva Las Vegas, Baby. It’s the logical place to ‘hang’ with a cool rock band. He pays for everything...sort of. Are we grateful? Not really...after all, hanging with an insufferable douche-bag like Jonathan, we are expensive. But no cash for the slots? Really? I dunno...maybe a hundred bucks each? Counting Wally, that would be $500. Chump change for chumps. You’re dropping ten grand or more for this shindig. Yesterday at Wendy’s you gave Wally a hundred bucks so you could pour a chocolate shake on his head. What the fuck do you care, Jonny? But honestly, wouldn’t you rather be the petulant ringmaster with your whip and whistle, rather than a circus bear with your little hat? Poked and prodded to perform for peanuts. The line blurs when it comes to bad behavior. It’s all about Primal-Alpha-Male Domination; ‘Me HaVe MoNeY--YoU nOt HavE--yOu WaNt--YoU dO WhAt Me sAy--MaYbe Me GivE--mAyBe Me NOt GiVe--NOW BEND OVER!’ So, after bending over backwards, we eat cheap steaks and drink free bourbon. We peruse the latest technological advancement, cable TV, in our cheap rooms. We watch, mildly spellbound, as Siegfried and Roy transport a Bengal tiger across the theater. Arnold Schwarzenegger, surrounded by showgirls, followed by mobsters. Typical Las Vegas stuff. On our last night, we spread out and wander the floor while Jonny Boy spins away a small fortune at the roulette wheel. Fuck him! I’ve got an hour to blow with nine quarters, so I do what anyone would, drop quarters into random machines.' Cherry~Bell~Lemon. A few machines down; Lemon~Bell~Cherry. Clutching my last two quarters, I approach a ‘SuperSlot’ machine. Its sirens and strobe lights dark and silent, patiently waiting for the next big winner. ‘OK. Here comes one...he’s obviously a loser, but he’s getting closer...c’mon over here and shake my arm, friend!’ I move through the crowd, stopping before a shiny chrome progressive machine. My right hand, clenched in a fist, unfurls, revealing two quarters. I drop one into the slot, reaching for the bandit’s arm, but hesitate for a momentary second thought. I pull down on the handle, starting the tumbler’s spin. Close-up of my bored face. Closer-Up of blurred tumblers. Time slows to a crawl. The sound of a head-on collision as Tumbler one snaps on a black bar. Tumbler two stops on a black bar to the sound of a train wreck. The earth stops spinning as the last tumbler plane crashes onto the 3 rd black bar. My shock and amazement is understandable. Never have I felt this rush of adrenaline! I’ve never won anything! And now I’ve won the jackpot! What are odds of this happening, a million to one? I’m Rich! I put my hands to my face. My eyes flick rapidly between the three bars and the strobe lights, anticipating the cacophony about to happen. But nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but silence. The bells and whistles remain cold and sadly dark. The vast room spins like a kaleidoscope. Etched on my face...confusion, then horror as the machine remains asleep, the black bars a mocking toothless grin. I examine the machine, looking for...something grabs my attention. My expression reflects a strange combination of despair and understanding. Because riveted next to the semi-hidden coin return button is the brass instructions badge. It reads; ‘YOU MUST DEPOSIT 2 QUARTERS TO WIN THE SUPER-MEGA JACKPOT’ [douche bag] That second quarter sits in my hand like a melting ice cube. “I didn’t see that one coming,” I mumble, dropping the lonely quarter into the slot. Not bothering to shake hands with the bandit, I disappear back into the crowd, back into obscurity. Back to ‘Poopsie’s Place’ where the Lemon Drops are always on the house.