CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 4

David Slasher walked through the front gates of the Westview College campus with his head down, lost in thought, ignoring the greetings of friends and acquaintances as they passed him on the crowded walkway. He had been haunted by a feeling of uneasiness for the past several days; something was not right with the world. A feeling of dark foreboding had been gradually coming over him, silently and surreptitiously, like storm clouds coming over the horizon.

It was not like Slasher to feel ill at ease. He was a naturally buoyant personality, for the most part happy with his life, even though he was subject to more irritants than the average person due to his much talked–about sexual proclivities. His personal life was the subject of busy gossip amongst the younger denizens of Westview, but Slasher had learned to take this in stride, even deriving some amusement from it. His many interests prevented him from being too concerned with any one aspect of his life; he flitted from one project to another with the joyful enthusiasm that had always kept him going.

Slasher flaunted his bisexuality as if it were a badge of courage, making facetious jokes about himself which had the effect of disarming the people who were most likely to use his eccentricity against him. He carried himself with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance, partly as a result of his many years of strict training in the martial arts, but mostly coming from an exuberant spirit which had led him down many different paths. At only 21 years of age, Slasher had traveled, socialized and accumulated more life experiences than any of his peers. His keen intelligence and many talents put him well above the grasp of the average person, yet he could mix easily with just about anyone due to his easy going and friendly nature, the friendliness which had opened many doors for him.

In his younger years Slasher had quite enjoyed using his superior fighting skills to silence and shame anyone foolish enough to challenge him about his sexual escapades. But as he matured, he had turned to a more roundabout way of dealing with the problem. Now whenever some hetero–stud warrior gave him trouble, the good–looking and charismatic Slasher would simply steal and seduce the offender's girlfriend, then dispose of her in a most contemptuous way when he was finished, like a litterbug flicking away his burnt–out cigarette into the street. His past record of success in these ventures had a most humiliating and deflationary effect on his many would–be challengers, causing most of them to think twice before inviting such a devastating insult. At any rate, Slasher seldom had any such problems these days.

Which was a good thing. Slasher had become more and more involved in writing and playing music, and this was taking up more and more of his time. Lately he had teamed up with the enormously gifted but very unpopular Carlos Fontana, a dirt–poor minority student from a low–rent Mayinkan neighborhood who had won admittance to Slasher's trendy college on an art scholarship. Slasher had grown to respect and like the odd–ball Fontana, but had quickly come to learn that his musical partner was no mere musician. He was a well–read and highly opinionated conspiracy theorist, some kind of crack–intellectual who believed that there was a plot amongst super–wealthy and highly organized elitist financier–politicians to enslave all the peoples of the world and reduce them to confusion and abject submission. He was an ultra–avid, drug–using surfer who was known for his crazy dare-devil exploits on dangerous waves. He was a writer of quasi–subversive political tracts which he printed on his home computer and tried to distribute amongst anyone who would take them. He was a classic paranoiac who believed he was being spied on by secret surveillance organizations that operated outside of and above the law. Like Slasher, he was the subject of mean and malicious gossip that circulated around the school and apparently even throughout the entire city. One rumor had him as a homosexual and pervert who had sex with his dog and other animals, an accusation that had only made the petulant Slasher like him even more, even though it had turned out to be just another lie. In fact, Fontana was one of the few virgins Slasher actually knew of. And he didn't even own a dog. His mother was allergic to them.

Slasher had come to enjoy being seen with Fontana, the weirdo pariah. The way in which they had met never failed to bring a smile to his face whenever he thought about it.

Slasher had been drunk at the time. It was a foggy Saturday night after a particularly dull Westview party attended by more than the usual quota of mean, spoiled, upper–class phonies from the surrounding environs. Slasher had begun to resent the oppressive, asphyxiating atmosphere that almost always prevailed at these gatherings of snobs and assholes and fled the party, hopping in his car and driving to the cold, deserted beach. There he wandered drunkenly about in the thick fog with his guitar, amusing himself by playing funny little phrases in the dark that made him giggle.

As he walked further from the parking lot towards the rocks at the north end of the beach, Slasher played yet another comical–sounding riff and then paused, fishing around in his jacket pocket for the joint he had rolled earlier. He was about to light it when he suddenly heard his own silly guitar lines coming back to him out of the fog, like a mocking echo. But it was no echo.

Slasher put his joint and lighter back in his pocket and fingered his guitar again, playing a different line this time. And once again, a similar sounding guitar phrase came ringing back to him from out of the foggy night.

Slasher smiled; this was truly funny. He had come to the beach on this uninviting night to be alone, and someone else was out there in the cold mist, playing a musical joke on him. Slasher walked toward the sound, now playing a more serious blues rhythm; the phantom of the mist replied to his call by playing an exquisite accompaniment that blended perfectly with Slasher's blues. Slasher continued playing as he headed toward the sound, and from out of the foggy night the mysterious guitarist/joker had suddenly materialized, sitting on a rock with an old battered acoustic, playing an inspired lead melody to Slasher's rhythm.

The other guitarist said nothing as Slasher sat down on a large rock beside him and continued playing. As Slasher increased the tempo of his song the phantom did likewise, displaying an amazing mastery of his instrument, playing difficult structures in fast time with apparent ease. Then Slasher suddenly switched to a different key, playing a musical joke of his own. But the phantom, after playing only a few exploratory notes, quickly locked onto the new key and once again began to wail away into the night. His lines were expressive and beautiful, combining flamenco nuances with blues–rock emotional intensity. Slasher was fascinated.

They played on that way for half an hour without stopping, one playing rhythm and the other lead, then swapping roles for awhile, then switching back again. Slasher played the best songs he knew, and the phantom amazingly played them back to him so that Slasher could play accompaniment. They established a gratifying rapport that grew like a fire in intensity. In that half–hour, running different songs off of each other, they had come to know one another intimately in a way that only true musicians can. When they finally stopped, the fog had totally cleared. The silence of the night was broken only by the sound of the waves crashing just offshore. They stared at each other for a few seconds, saying nothing.

Slasher extended his hand. "I'm David Slasher," he said quietly. The phantom reached out and gave his hand a firm shake.

"Carlos Fontana," he said with a grin. "Pleased to meet you."

In the months that followed Slasher and Fontana had become close friends, meeting almost every day at one or the other's house to write and produce songs. Each had a home studio consisting of computerized digital recording programs, small mixing consoles and various other equipment which they used to capture and color their musical dreams and visions. As time passed they had jammed with other talented musicians Slasher knew, and eventually added a bass player named Billy Bruce and a drummer named Mitchell Starkly to their lineup. All were exceptionally gifted musicians, but Fontana had immediately proven himself to be the dominant force behind the band, establishing himself as the lead guitarist, songwriter and arranger, though it was Slasher who steered the group towards what was to become their ultimate goal: making money off of their music. Slasher had submitted tapes of their songs to various friends he knew in the music industry, but was frustrated when nothing came of it; he felt that their music was superior to most of the commercialized trash that dominated the airwaves, and had much to learn about the corporate favoritism and bribery that permeated the entertainment industry.

Still, it had all been great fun trying to become rock stars, except that Fontana's other interests, or to put it more accurately obsessions, kept intruding on his time. Whenever the waves were good he would get up before sunrise to go surfing, a physical expenditure that resulted in his growing tired early in the evening which was when the band usually met to practice. Then there was his damnable interest in his conspiracy theories, which he couldn't seem to keep from imposing on anyone who would listen. He actually had file cabinets full of newspaper clippings and photocopies from pages of books he had checked out from various libraries, dealing with wars and revolutions in the most obscure little countries. Between his schoolwork and the conspiracies, he spent a lot of his precious time reading. Yes, Carlos Fontana had turned out to be a most inaccessible person.

Then there was Katrina. Slasher's ex–girlfriend Katrina Fury had inexplicably begun to hang around him again at school, toting her new guitar and asking questions about Carlos Fontana. Slasher didn't think the ravishing beauty had even known who Fontana was; the two opposites traveled in entirely different circles. He and Katrina had drifted apart after Slasher had ascertained that she was a prudish virgin, and firmly intended to remain one until she married. But suddenly there she was, back again and making a nuisance of herself. Come to think of it, Carlos had recently mentioned something about Katrina, but Slasher hadn't thought anything of it; everybody made remarks about Katrina, the prettiest girl in the whole school. And Katrina had just returned to school after a mysterious absence that she wouldn't talk about; all he knew was that her father had passed away. He had heard some rumors that she had suffered a nervous breakdown of some sort. These unusual events had begun to come together and arouse his suspicion. What was behind her sudden interest in Fontana?

More ominously, the last few times he'd spoken to Fontana on the phone he had heard strange clicking noises in the background, prompting him to ask the guitarist what they were. "They're tapping my phone," Carlos nonchalantly replied. Slasher had just laughed, assuming he was joking. But lately he had started to wonder if there really could be something to the crazy things that Fontana was constantly saying about secret societies and surveillance agencies. It seemed too far–fetched to be true, but if it were, then why on earth would anyone big target a small–time surfer/musician who couldn't possibly pose a threat to them?

All these things were beginning to make Slasher feel very uneasy. To make matters worse, malicious rumors about Fontana were once again beginning to circulate throughout the school; Slasher overheard them practically everywhere he went. And he was at this very moment walking directly toward the very same group of people whom he suspected were most likely responsible for spreading these calumnies.

Gathered around a soft–drink vending machine were Jacob Rosenberg, Mike Sakack and three or four other well–known busybodies, including Bill Bronsky, the much–feared bodybuilder, party crasher and campus bully who was known for starting trouble wherever he went, and who was at that very moment regarding Slasher with an expression of disgust on his broad, square face. Rosenberg's other gossipy henchmen were also staring at him with amused sneers. Then to Slasher's outrage the cowardly Mike Sakack, apparently feeling safe and emboldened in the company of Bronsky, let out a loud wolf whistle. Instantly Slasher felt a strong, almost overpowering urge to give Sakack a good kicking right then and there, but laboriously managed to keep his cool, remembering that he was right in the middle of the school's main courtyard. Instead he stopped and faced the group, putting on a well–practiced grin.

"Hey hey hey there, little boys. What's all this adulation about?" he asked in a mock–cheerful voice.

Rosenberg was wearing his usual contemptuous smile. He waved one hand in the air. "Well, you look good today! Can't a guy show his appreciation?" The others chortled in amusement.

Slasher kept grinning, letting the laughter die down before he answered. "No offense taken, friend. I look good cause I'm on my way to see yo' mama! Aint that reason enough?"

Another round of giggles, except from Rosenberg and Bronsky. Slasher kept smiling and looked at Bronsky. The big ox was still staring at him with a look of unmistakeable contempt. As Slasher contemplated him, he silently cursed himself for slacking off on his karate drills; Bronsky looked imposing and formidable. But this was no time to show fear -- if he did, the disrespect would spread like wildfire. He stopped smiling and stared hard at Bronsky. "Anybody need a little friendly exercise today?" Slasher asked with a hint of menace in his voice.

Suddenly the laughter stopped as Rosenberg's group grew silent in expectation; it seemed that a good brawl was imminent. Slasher and Bronsky stood motionless and stared into each other's blue eyes for a good ten seconds. Only a few feet separated them. The tension in the air spread to the students standing around nearby, who began to look on in curiosity.

Bill Bronsky considered his next move. He felt positive he could beat the much smaller Slasher, and was willing to get a reprimand for fighting on campus in order to do just that. But Bronsky had heard of Slasher's long line of triumphs over bigger foes; the little guy could fight. If Bronsky failed to secure a quick decisive victory, it would tarnish his reputation. He decided not to risk it. His expression changed from disgusted to amused.

"Not today," he said cheefully.

Slasher returned his smile. "You sure now?"

Jacob Rosenberg bristled in anger. Slasher was making a sly joke, a play on the word Usher. "Usher now?" How dare he! Jacob suddenly felt powerless, unable to return a vicious slap in the face. He wanted to make Bronsky kick Slasher's ass, but couldn't appear to be manipulating the easily–manuevered jock too directly. He could only stare at Slasher in furious silence.

"Not today, pal," Bronsky repeated, still smiling.

"Hmmph..." Slasher felt vindicated. He turned and continued on his way, but inwardly made a resolution to henceforth keep in fighting shape at all times. He could not bear to let these bastards run rampant over him; he would not. His spirit wouldn't allow it; he was better than they were. Still, he knew he wasn't going to prove it by fighting -- that was no longer his way. Fist fighting was for morons. No, he would prove it by besting them, showing himself to be superior in a higher manner. He would win by succeeding in the music world, by garnering acclaim and the whole world's admiration. His innate confidence inspired him to believe fully in himself and his artistic abilities; he could break through the entertainment industry's unfair standards; he could achieve his lofty goals. And Carlos Fontana was the key to the gate.

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