CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 16

Slasher sat propped up on a large, comfortable bed as he surveyed the expensive hotel room he had just rented. He was feeling extremely pleased with himself.  Although he had traveled quite a bit, Slasher generally stayed at the cheaper hotels; this was because his joker father refused to "spoil" him by financing his various excursions.  “Son, how could I deprive you of the satisfaction of knowing you got something for yourself?  If I pay for all your pleasures, I’m actually robbing you of an essential source of your pride and self–esteem!  I just couldn’t do that to you, my boy.  I’m not a cruel man, you see?” he would say, with his big shit–eating grin.  Getting money from his father was like squeezing water from a rock, but Slasher was beginning to understand what he meant for the first time.  It really was a great feeling to put down your own money and take possession of a $200–a–night room, and just lay there and take it all in.

Not that Slasher had made that much money yet, at least not by his expectations.  He and his three bandmates had just earned $2,500 apiece after surviving their first concert, even if they had done it at the cost of their dignity.  That was huge money for an unknown band that didn’t even have a record out yet, but it was a small percentage of what the concert promoter had taken in.  Seeing as how the headlining act was The Asskickers, another ephemerally popular but ridiculously untalented rage–rock band that was being hyped as the next Goons in Poses, their new manager Frank Fortune had had the brilliant idea of raising some quick money by signing them up for a concert featuring four other bands.  The Asskickers had filled the huge concert arena with their screaming, cursing, frothing, brawling devotees, and had paid their four opening acts well, although it was an experience Slasher wasn’t anxious to repeat.

He laughed as he thought about the previous night.  Carlos Fontana was a genius.  He had destroyed their nervousness with his outrageous humor, putting them in stitches by explaining in his hilarious deadpan way how the elite conspirators who controlled the entertainment industry were actually promoting bands like The Asskickers in order to create hostility between different races and classes, so that those people wouldn’t unite and rise up against their shadowy masters.  What was ludicrous was that someone might actually think his outlandish theories really were true if they watched some of the bands that opened for The Asskickers, including their own band, which they had jokingly decided to call The Cool Banditos.

The first group that had taken the outdoor stage was the blatantly white supremist Sons of David.  Although they could barely play their instruments, this mockery of a rock band was climbing the charts with their new single “Kill ‘em All,” a song with lyrics that openly espoused all–out racial warfare.  The Sons played four songs that were indistinguishable from one another, finishing their set by smashing all their guitars together in a mock battle and hurling the broken pieces out at the howling audience, in a sad imitation of a legendary guitarist.

Carlos had giggled all through the set as his three bandmates looked on in astonishment.  “Now they’ll bring out the black band and try to get the whites and blacks in the audience to fight, watch.”  And sure enough, the next group to take the stage was the all black band Uprising, opening with their big hit “Off The Oppressors.”  They were just as bad as the Sons of David, screaming their way through a few numbers and ending with a comical but inflammatory song called “White Thing.”

“White thing,” yelled the lead singer.  “You make the guns ring.  You make everything... gloomy.  White thing!  Come on, come on, white thing!”  The singer shook his fist and made obscene gestures as fights began to break out amongst the mixed crowd.  This was not an uncommon occurrence for a rage rock concert; in fact it was merely business as usual for the beefy security guards who waded into the crowd swinging batons, and who managed to quell the disturbance only after many of the combatants had been dragged off to the big detention tent that had been set up at the rear of the concert grounds.

The next band up was actually pretty good, an all acoustic quartet called Harmony.  But they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it was anyone’s guess as to why they had even been brought before such an unappreciative crowd.  Soon after their first resonating chords floated out over the loudspeakers, the disgusted rage rockers began to drown them out in a deluge of boos, shouts and curses.  Then things began to get really ugly; projectiles began flying as the crowd expressed its fervant desire for the quartet to quit the stage. Harmony attempted to ride it out, retreating behind the amps and shielding their rare, valuable guitars with their bodies while continuing their set, but the crowd was adamant and growing more invective by the minute. Slasher grimaced in disgust, perturbed that he had been forced to witness the spectacle, as the promoter hurried out and motioned for the band to stop playing. Harmony gratefully fled the debacle, with real fear showing in their faces.

It was time for the Cool Banditos to step up and face the music, but a change in tactics was obviously necessary if they were to escape the volley that had driven Harmony off the stage.  At the last minute Carlos quickly instructed the band to abandon their pre–planned set and start off with their most boisterous and rowdy number, a song they had actually thrown together in a few minutes as a joke while practicing.  But they stretched out the song’s bombastic introduction for ten long minutes, to the delight of the audience; this was something the ragers rarely heard, a genuinely coarse, bass–heavy groove that had something resembling an actual melody to it.  Many began to dance and slam into each other as the repetitive power chords plowed new furrows into their brains, stimulating them into violent action. As the Banditos whammed into the chorus, Carlos uncharacteristically began playing mindless heavy metal riffs that grew faster and faster as the song progressed.

The crowd began to roar in approval, drowning out the music, and Slasher had yet to sing a single word.  Quickly adapting to the situation at hand, he forgot about the song’s actual lyrics and began to scream insults and profanities into the microphone, shaking his fist and occasionally extending his middle finger to the odious crowd, which responded frenetically.  The entire front row of young men began to bang their heads against the stage; the rest were on their feet and pressing forward, crushing each other’s bodies together.  Those who had room slammed themselves into one another in a splendid exhibit of youthful spirit and exuberance. The security guards began to show up on the sidelines, their batons at the ready, but appeared reluctant to penetrate into the violent ocean of jostling rage rockers.  No sane person could blame them.

Then Carlos had motioned for them to go into the song’s ending, the heaviest part of the song.  As Billy and Mitch climbed into a frenzied bass and drum climax, Slasher threw himself screaming to the floor and began to imitate a person having an epileptic seizure, his arms and legs flailing shamelessly as his bandmates looked on in great amusement.  After a few minutes Mitch began laughing so hard that he could hardly continue playing his drums; it was time to wrap up the obscene farce, but the crowd wasn’t having it.  They screamed for more, chanting in unison and beating on each other as reinforcements of security guards were brought out to try and restore order.  It was useless; the crowd could not be contained.  The Cool Banditos had stolen the show.  As the very unhappy Asskickers waited worriedly in the wings, they wondered how on earth they were going to put down this uprising.

The promoter motioned for them to get off the stage as a small riot began to erupt, and the boys were only too happy to comply. The Asskickers were getting ready to come out and confront the tumultuous sea of crazed fans, allowing the Banditos to make a hasty exit; they had not even completed one full song.  Declining to stay and enjoy the rest of the show, they escaped in a large van while their unfortunate roadies remained behind to pick up the pieces.  Things had not gone at all as they would have wanted for their first show, but they didn’t worry about it too much. Their ample paycheck made it all seem worthwhile, although the upstaged Asskickers’ manager had promptly cancelled any future opening dates for the Banditos; these upstarts were a dangerous threat to his boys.

Slasher got up from the bed and went over to the window, giggling as he thought about his recent experience, but abruptly stopped laughing as he perused the expensive view.  Although his hotel was located in a safe part of the city, from his high vantage point he could see police helicopters circling about in the distance as they hunted down some desperate fleeing criminal.  This was not something he normally saw in his home town of Westview, although it was a frequent occurrence in the crime–infested outlying districts.  It was a stark reminder of what awaited him should he fail to follow in his father’s footsteps and make a lot of money, but Slasher had full confidence in the musical potential of his band.  He would make a lot of money; it was coming.  He could see it.

His only concern now was the uncertainty of dealing with his primary partner, the intractable Carlos Fontana.  With the canceling of their impending shows bringing some free time and with a lot of money in his pocket for the first time in his life, Carlos had absconded with that irresponsible playboy Troy Winters to go surf “the heavies,” surfer lingo for the large dangerous waves that broke in the Kanala Islands, the surfer’s mecca.  To make things worse, Troy had been enthusiastically predicting massive waves due to two storms that were converging on the tropical islands, which lay in the middle of the ocean and were particularly receptive to them.

Slasher’s brow furrowed as he stared out the window.  The circling police helicopters were diverting his optimistic thoughts and making him worry, not about the pervasive crime which plagued most of the country, but about Carlos’s longevity.  With a prosperous musical future beckoning, Carlos’s penchant for taking chances in the ocean was now a major issue to be reckoned with.  If Carlos wanted to risk his neck in the pursuit of recreation it was his business, but to endanger the success of the band was something else entirely; it was inconsiderate at the very least.  They would have to discuss this when Carlos came back.

If Carlos came back, that was. Slasher continued to look out the window as his thoughts drifted to the huge waves he had seen for himself when he visited the Kanalas some time back.  Slasher had actually witnessed surfers being rescued by helicopter as the waves had suddenly increased, doubling in size in a matter of minutes.  It hadn’t bothered him much at the time; he really didn’t care that much for surfers, especially Troy Winters, whose annoying presence always elicited a marked change in Carlos’s usually calm demeanor.  The two would start to talk about surfing and go off into a world of their own, speaking in arcane tongues about things like swell direction, winds, tides and the like.  Slasher much preferred the personality of the musical Carlos to that of the surfing Carlos.

“Oh well,” Slasher thought to himself.  Nothing to be done about it.  He knew that Carlos was a very experienced surfer and could probably handle himself well in large waves.  It was useless to worry anyway; he had learned long ago that worrying never changed the outcome of anything.  Still, as he stared out the window at the helicopters he felt his spirits beginning to drop a bit.  If Carlos were lost it would not only be a devastating, perhaps fatal loss to the band, it would be a severe emotional blow to Slasher himself, for he had really come to bond with his unusual friend and musical partner.  He could only wait and hope that all went well in surfer heaven.

Meanwhile there were plans to be made for future concerts.  He had to call his manager Frank Fortune, who had assured him there would be no more openings for rage–rock posers; he was already making preliminary arrangements for a tour that would take them across the country, supporting some of Slasher’s and Carlos’s favorite bands.  They were going to get to meet and jam with some legendary musical figures, and were going to get paid very well; it was promising to be quite an adventure.

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Troy Winters looked out the window of the jet that was taking him across the dark, ominous looking ocean to his favorite place on earth, the Kanala Islands, and felt some minor butterflies in the pit of his stomach.  He had been coming to these islands to surf ever since he was a youngster, thanks to the beneficent indulgence of his wealthy father who thoroughly approved of his son’s interest in the healthy sport.   But unlike most of the white mainlanders who invaded the surfing mecca each winter, Troy was a welcome and well–liked guest of the hardcore Kanala natives, whose resentment and distrust of the tourist hordes was legendary. 

It had taken him many years to gain acceptance from the hard–riding locals, but now Troy was definitely in.  His generosity with his father’s money was part of the reason; he frequently took his Kanala friends out to dinner at the expensive restaurants that dotted the beautiful beaches of the tropical paradise, and often made small loans to the financially struggling surfers.  He had genuinely come to feel that it was his obligation as a well–to–do mainland encroacher to try to make amends for the offenses commited by his ancestors, knowing that far too many of his kind took the opposite viewpoint.  As the natives opened up and extended their hospitality to him, Troy had become uncomfortably aware of the injuries inflicted on them by the conquerors who had transformed their idyllic world, and denied them access to some of their best surfing beaches.

Troy glanced to his right.  His friend Carlos Fontana was peacefully asleep in the seat next to him, a book about the Kanala Islands laying in his lap.  Carlos had not gotten much sleep in the past few days, as he had been trying hard to launch his band into the lucrative rock concert stratosphere that beckoned to all such musicians.  To his credit, the first thing Carlos had done when he came into some time and money was to accompany Troy on one of his frequent visits to the islands in the hope of finding some big perfect waves, and two accommodating hurricanes were promising to provide some real excitement.

Troy smiled.  Carlos was the perfect companion to take on a surfing expedition to the Kanalas.  With his dark looks and radical surfing style, Carlos would fit in well and would probably be quickly accepted by the locals.  And Troy couldn’t think of any surfer who deserved it more; Carlos was one of the best surfers he knew outside of the Kanalas, though he had never managed to scrape up enough money to come to paradise.  It seemed so unfair, as winter after winter passed and he had watched Carlos struggle to save up enough money to go, only to have some misfortune crop up and deny him the pleasure.  In fact, Troy had actually been on the verge of asking his father to pay Carlos’s way as a gift when things had begun to change for Carlos.

The first sign that things were getting better for his friend was when the stunningly beautiful Katrina Fury, now an upcoming actress, had taken an ardent interest in him.  This event had quickly been followed by another even more incredible one when the famous rock star Nicky Jagwire had taken Carlos’s band under his wing, signing them to his own record label and introducing them to their present manager, the highly successful Frank Fortune.  Fortune had immediately gotten them a profitable gig, and apparently many more were planned.  The band was in the process of recording their debut album; Troy had heard some of it, and it sounded great.  It appeared that Carlos finally had a shot at the big time.

They were only minutes away from Kauapuna, the main Kanala island and the center of the surfing world.  They were going to be picked up at the airport by none other than Liko Boy Lahainia, one of the most respected and renowned surfers in Kauapuna and the world, and a good friend of Troy’s; he would bring them to his own home for the duration of their short stay and had promised to take them to his secret surfing spot, where they would surf untroubled by the aggressive crowds that competed fiercely for waves at the better known locations. Liko Boy was one of the best surfers in the world, but had been unable to achieve the financial security that the top surfers from the UFS and other countries enjoyed, largely because he was a native Kanala with pride and was viewed as “the enemy” by the ethnocentric major sponsors.  He had actually come pretty close to striking it rich; the multi–million dollar clothing corporation Great Ocean had initially attempted to exploit his talent and charisma to sell its products.  They had sponsored him and paid his way on the competition surfing circuit that toured the world every year, and color pictures of Liko surfing had appeared on the tags of millions of garments in clothing shops in many countries. Having thus been enabled to compete on the circuit, Liko had begun to rack up an alarming string of contest wins and high placings, rocketing up to the number one spot and firmly holding onto it.  But when the World Championship seemed imminent, unseen forces had moved in to deny him his rightful victory.

There had been a divisive fracture in the structure of the contest circuit when a robustious, opportunistic surfer named Ian Pyre from the country of Tasmalusia had obtained financial backing from Great Ocean and started his own surfing organization, which began making questionable demands on the contestants and imposing penalties on those who failed to comply.  As the contest circuit had wound down to its exciting conclusion in the big wave proving grounds of the Kanalas, Pyre and his backers staged a coup.  They completely took over the circuit by manipulating prize money, forbidding all contestants to compete in the Kanala contests because those contents were financed by competitors of Great Ocean.  This was an outrage to all big wave enthusiasts and especially to the native Kanalas, who always shone in their home surf.  When Liko Boy and other Kanalas defied the rules and surfed in the big wave events anyway, they were fined heavily and barred from competing on the new circuit.  On the verge of becoming the World Champion, Liko Boy had been robbed of his title.  A surfer from another country then went on to take the championship as Waverider Magazine, the most widely distributed surfing journal, downplayed the shameful farce and glorified the new undeserving World Champion to a sickening extent in the glossy pages of its palpably biased publication.

Troy looked out at the ocean again and felt the same anger and shame rising in him, the feeling he could not escape whenever he thought about the invisible hand that manipulated events in the surfing world.  The treachery had not stopped there; it had escalated the following year when Liko once again began to dominate Pyre’s new circuit, and had brought into sharp focus the disgusting methods used by the cowardly and conniving men who controlled the surfing magazines and contest circuit, men who regularly brought disgrace upon the white race.

Waverider Magazine’s chief editor was an embarrassingly untalented surfer named Kempton Hawke, a typical blowhard who used his magazine to glorify himself and others like him, publishing distorted truths and outright lies with absolutely no concern whatsoever for his integrity or credibility.  It mattered little to Hawke that every intelligent surfer in Kanala regarded him with contempt and disgust; he didn’t get paid by these surfers, he got paid by non–surfing white businessmen and financiers whose sole intent was to reap profits while shoring up the sagging egos of their jealous and frustrated kind.  Hawke’s illegitimate son, a surfer named Shane Doorman whose abilities were laughable compared to the top Kanalas, was regularly and prominently featured in every issue of his magazine as if he were one of the world’s top talents. Hawke had even gone so far as to proclaim that this phony was among the circuit’s top three contestants, when his actual rating was far below that.  But that was nothing compared to what he did to Liko Boy.

One day Hawke had shown up uninvited at one of Liko Boy’s private parties where surfing movies were being viewed by some of the upper echelon Kanala locals.  Liko Boy had made the fatal error of not throwing this devious two–faced saboteur out immediately, and when a small amount of cocaine had been passed amongst the surfers Hawke seized the opportunity to write about the party in his magazine, emphasizing the illegal drug use.  When Great Ocean learned of the article it completely and permanently dropped its support of Liko Boy, depriving him of a lucrative source of income and the ability to compete in the circuit. Smelling blood, Hawke had then gone overboard in his efforts to finish off Liko Boy.  He began publishing articles questioning Liko Boy’s character and intimating that Liko Boy won contests by intimidating other surfers, using Kanala gangsters to threaten them with violence.

Flabbergasted by these shamelessly blatant below–the–belt tactics, Liko Boy had temporarily folded under the psychological onslaught and began using cocaine and other hard drugs frequently and self–destructively.  This had led to his complete withdrawal from the surfing contests, and then from the waves entirely.  For a long time he had stayed at home, avoiding people, doing hard drugs and just lying in bed listening to music all day long.  Hawke stopped mentioning Liko Boy at all in the magazine, as if he had never even existed; he figured Liko Boy was gone for good.

But Liko Boy had recovered, although he never competed again and ceased all contact with the surfing media.  He successfully kicked his drug habit and went back to school to complete his college degree, and started a successful surfing school which began bringing in a good steady income.  After a while he had started surfing frequently again, and had regained his confidence and abilities.  He married a local girl and settled down to the good life of a native Kanala surfer, enjoying the respect and admiration of his neighbors and peers. Now Liko Boy was riding high once again, and was coming to pick them up from the airport in his new car.  Carlos was aware of Liko Boy’s abstinence and had magnanimously agreed not to use or even mention drugs during his stay. This was good for Carlos, Troy mused to himself; he smoked too much pot anyway. One thing you didn’t want when surfing big Kanala waves was to be short of breath.

Soon after their jet landed and they disembarked, Troy saw Liko Boy walking through the crowd towards them, waving.  Upon being introduced to Carlos, Liko Boy scanned his face for a moment before breaking into a grin and extending his hand.

“It’s an honor,” Carlos said in his serious manner, which made Liko Boy laugh.

“Troy told me a lot about you, Carlos.  I think you’re going to like it here in Kauapuna.  And don’t worry about waking up early to catch the offshore winds; they don’t start until later.  We get up late tomorrow, eh Troy?”

“That’s good Liko Boy, ‘cause Carlos here needs to get some shut–eye!  I hear we’re gonna have some waves to play with.  How big do you think it’s gonna be tomorrow?” Troy asked.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?  They’re calling for huge waves.  Two hurricanes are causing swells to hit from different directions… it’s gonna’ be too big for most of the breaks, but my secret spot is protected somewhat.  It should be holding the size.  Backwash may be a problem at higher tide, but you can’t have everything, can you?  And no crowds to bother us, boys… just pick any wave and go!  You’re gonna’ love it.”

As they drove through the moon–lit night Carlos couldn’t see much beyond the highway, but was aware of an aromatic fragrance to the air that he had never experienced.  He felt exultant; he had finally made it to Kanala!  Tomorrow he would live the dream for the first time, with good friends to show him around and perfect uncrowded waves to surf.  And the waves were going to be big.  The feeling of nervous expectation that had been following him ever since he had been told of the hurricanes was rising up once again, but it was a good feeling.  It had always been a portent of memorable surfing experiences, times when he had overcome fear and faced up to challenges; these were memories he drew strength from and treasured.

Upon arriving at Liko’s house Carlos and Troy were introduced to his wife Annette, who threw together a quick but delicious native meal for them.  After dinner they sat in the living room and talked about current events in the islands.  When the conversation turned briefly to the surfing media, Carlos was surprised to find that Liko Boy was amazingly indifferent about his mistreatment by the magazines.  “The way I see it," Liko Boy said, "I made a lot of money there for a while, went around the world surfing, got famous and was able to get a lot of customers for my surfing school.  Hawke made an ass of himself, but it’s alright; now he’s more popular than ever with the jerks, so I guess everything came out alright for everybody.”

“I wonder where old Hawke is going to surf tomorrow,” said Troy, a look of amusement on his face.

“He’s going to be dominating the parking lot, where he always is whenever it’s big,” laughed Liko Boy.  Then he steered the conversation away from the ridiculous editor and back to sunnier topics.  They talked late into the evening, then retired for the night.  In spite of his tiredness, Carlos felt an excitement and restlessness that made it difficult to relax; visions of big perfect waves were dancing through his head.  But eventually sheer exhaustion overtook him, and he dropped off into a deep restful sleep.

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Copyright 2006, 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino.