CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 20

John "Wolfman Johnny" Fortino sat in his favorite, most comfortable black leather reclining chair, sipping his margarita as he stared out his front picture window at the splendid view spreading out below him. From his enviable hilltop position he could watch the city lights as they shone and twinkled in the distance, stretching out to his right and left for as far as the eye could see, while just beyond, the black outline of the ocean glistened under a brilliantly moonlit sky. Uplifting, melodic jazz music resonated from the ceiling–mounted speakers surrounding his chair in the large exotically furnished living room of his beautiful two-story brick mansion. John had some of the finest jazz in the world playing on his old–fashioned turntable; the best of the best were all lined up and wailing away, trying hard to lift his spirits. But it was no use.

This usually very pleasant midnight vigil had always been his favorite way of wrapping up another busy, enjoyable day -- another profitable day. Wolfman Johnny was the highest–paid rock music radio announcer in the entire country, a distinction he had enjoyed for many decades. Wolfman's popularity stemmed from his raw, growling tone of voice which, coupled with his extremely quick and creatively funny mind, enabled him to fire off jokes and appropriately sarcastic but insightful witticisms at will, while never actually crossing the boundaries of propriety. He had been the premiere master of this art, the time–honored "feel good" method of entertaining without offending, and his style had been emulated on radio stations all around the world. He still knew and was close to many of the older, upper–echelon rock music industry moguls, and often hosted legendary musicians at his gated hilltop retreat. He had been around the world himself also, and had met a lot of wonderful people. He always liked everybody he met; he liked himself. That is, he had liked himself... before the change came.

John took another sip of his drink, tasting salt from the encrusted rim of his oversized goblet, before setting it down carefully on one of the colorful coasters decorating the fancy little table beside him. Reaching down and opening up one of the table's lower drawers, he took out a huge, deadly looking pistol and a box of bullets and placed them on the tabletop beside his margarita. It had become his habit to frequently inspect and clean his guns; in the event he should ever have to use them, he wanted them to be in tip–top shape. He also owned two other handguns, two rifles, a double–barrel shotgun and an old–fashioned machine gun, the kind the gangsters and bank robbers of olden times used to use. John felt secure in his hilltop castle, with all his weapons and ammunition; if any fool tried to break in and threaten his life, the idiot surely wouldn't hold water for very long... not with all the holes John would put in him.

And John did have reason to believe that some fool might try to break into his house and try to end his life. He had displeased some very powerful people, people he had never actually met but was quite certain really did exist; he had angered them by refusing to completely bend to their invisible, unaccountable will and letting them have absolute control over everything he did in his professional life. He had given voice to something that had been building up inside him for years, an ever–growing resentment at having his creative abilities stifled and being told what to say on his radio show. This outrage had actually started a long time ago, but had at first seemed tolerable and within acceptable boundaries. But that had changed... surrep­titiously. A slowly increasing wave of management changes in all of the western radio stations had been wreaking havoc with something that John loved, treasured and also relied upon heavily for his continued success: a radio station phenomenon known as the "hit parade." The hit parade was merely an apt commercial term for when a D.J. played a non–stop succession of the very best hard rock, soft rock, rhythm & blues–rock, jazz–rock, soul-rock, country–rock and "pop" music that dominated the charts, which was something that Wolfman Johnny had always done anyway, from the very beginning. John's vast musical knowledge, which extended from rock to classical and beyond, enabled him to also throw in many lesser known and sometimes completely forgotten gems from the past; by doing this, he had given a jumpstart boost to many a great but forgotten artist's comeback as well. This was his secret, his formula for success; simply play the very best, and too bad about the rest. "No filler material" was John's motto. But apparently, mysteriously ensconsed power brokers had some very different ideas about what was best for the public.

Things had begun to take on a different vibe; the music and the lyrics had changed from the melodic, mellower but still exciting and profound styles of the previous decades to a more visceral, angst and hate–filled mode of expression. It had started slowly at first, but as the macho ambience of the new lyrics, combined with a regressive musical formula that had been gradually foisted upon the public attracted more and more hard–core devotees (melodically devoid morons who had previously thought music was only for effeminate queers), a dreadful phenomenon called "rage rock" had started to take shape and prosper. It had seemed an appropriate thing for a society that seemed to be sliding fast down a slippery slope to complete social chaos; as the political hard–right military industrial complex demanded more and more wars from it's hapless and long–suffering population, the most popular rock bands of the day accordingly started pumping out "patriotic" drivel encouraging people to hate, fight and kill each other. These idiotic songs were laced to the limit with fast but asinine heavy metal guitar riffs which conveyed absolutely no feeling whatsoever to a more aestheticallty perceptive listener, except possibly a strong urge to get up and turn off the radio. To be forced to play the new pap when there wasn't even enough time to play half of the best music was bad enough -- but there was more.

John looked down at the exotic persian carpet at his feet, a frown coming over his face. Certain questionable events of the last ten years or so had been tarnishing his legacy, and his reputation. Mysterious changes in management had occurred, and unseen sequestered powers had started forcing him to say things on the air that he loathed giving voice to, things of a most degrading nature, printed out on small cue cards. First came racial innuendoes, then more direct insults specifically intended for a specific, albeit unnamed recipient. Next came political propoganda alluding to and justifying imminent foreign invasions of one renegade country or another, accounts which John, who followed many fairly reliable news sources religiously, knew for a fact were false; it was the exact opposite of what was actually happening in the world. It was John's own country, the United Free States, that was responsible for all the aggression, fighting and military buildups, not the other way around. And the UFS, had seemingly been taken over by another country he had visited several times in his worldly travels... Usheria.

John reached for his goblet and took another drink. He never liked to admit the truth to himself, that it was Ushers who were mainly responsible for all the social decadence and military mayhem, and that it was the same kind of Ushers that were remotely manipulating him -- after all, it was Ushers that had given him his start in the business when he was still very young, recognizing his talent, encouraging him and backing him financially. And it was Ushers that had helped him immensely to succeed in his chosen field. Ushers had nurtured him when he was unknown, had cut him in generously as the profits from their various ventures increased; with their assistance he had bloomed into an extremely popular radio personality, and everything had gone just great after that. As the good times continued to roll along John had been reticent to believe the bad things which he read and heard, even from sources he considered fairly trustworthy, about Usher plots to take over the entire civilized world and reduce it to slavery.

But, as the saying went, all good things must pass -- and so it was with the "Golden Age" of hip radio. As the decades flew by, his older Usher backers, employers and friends had all died or retired and younger Ushers had taken their places, kids of a very different upbringing. Kids who despised his favorite musicians... and who despised him as well! Kids who totally got off on idiotic, blatantly unmusical crap played by rage-rock bands whom they outrageously and absurdly insisted were taking rock music to a higher level. That was unpalatable enough in itself, but it was only the beginning. A series of personnel changes had ensued, each one bringing in new rules and requirements that went far beyond mere musical preference. Sick rules... disgusting requirements.

He had been cued by mysterious, unseen hands to express his resentment of various "foreigners" living in the UFS, who came from countries that were hostile. Because this had commenced so imperceptibly and had always been accompanied by generous pay raises John, although perturbed, had declined to stand up to his shadowy masters. It was only when the mean innuendoes which he was forced to recite began turning into outright malicious accusations of "foreigner" evil-doing that John finally felt compelled to object; he had then complained to his supervisor, the only semi–managerial figure he ever got to talk to anymore. When his complaint was immediately answered with a 50% salary increase and more hateful cue–cards, John had put his foot down, stating that he would not continue making inflammatory statements and was not accepting the salary increase. A brief period of non–communication had followed; it had been the calm before the storm.

The coercion had started shortly after the bribery attempt failed. He had been unexpectedly and viciously attacked by previously friendly hosts of talk shows that he appeared on; then, comically distorted caricatures of his well–known visage began showing up in newspapers and magazines, and his name had been ridiculed and maligned in tabloids and gossip throughout the entire country. And always it was the same old accusation... that he was some kind of anti–Usherite, subversive enemy–loving traitor, and a ridiculous old–school relic from the past as well. Still John had refused to give in, and gradually his control over the music played on his own show had been completely usurped, so that eventually all he ever did was sit there and read verbatim the cue cards containing "his" editorial statements, in between playing contemptibly putrid speed-metal and rage rock songs. The statements had been toned down somewhat, but were still either mean–spirited (if not blatantly sadistic), or else mysteriously cryptic to the point of sounding nonsensical, even crazy. The same type of thing had been happening not only on super–popular radio stations, but also on every other kind of media outlet in the west; it seemed as if society was being deliberately driven insane by monstrous, unseen manipulators.

This was entertainment of a very different stripe than what hosts like John had served up in the past. Everything from soap operas and deoderant commercials to the most watched talk and news programs of the day had gone noticeably crude, vulgar and antagonistic in essence; this regression had ushered in a climate of disrespect which was noticeable and offensive to older, more perceptive people. The tragedy was that younger people were growing up thinking that things had always been this way, and this was the way life itself had always been; rotten to the core. But be they old or young, the truth was that the new "entertainment" was still the opiate of the masses; nobody seemed to be able to live without it. It all seemed absolutely insane to John -- and now it was getting even crazier.

Sighing, he looked down at the stack of cue cards with their repugnantly mean contents lying on the table next to his margarita glass, all ready for him to repeat the next morning... like some kind of idiotic trained parrot. Next to them lay a music disc of his current favorite rock band -- The Cool Banditos, whose two leaders, a singer and a guitarist, had recently been introduced to John by his brother. Picking up the music disc, he stared at the picture on the cover. The Cool Banditos were a fast–rising and promising new upstart threat to the negative formula music that had taken over the airwaves; it seemed to John that a changing of the guard could be in the offing, with this band at the forefront. However, it was that very same threat, and the ways in which the entertainment industry moguls were responding to it, that was responsible for the agonizing moral dilemma that was pervading his existence.

Exhaling heavily, he picked up the stack of cue cards and began reading through them; it was more of the same old deflationary rhetoric aimed at some poor helpless victim, but this time John knew exactly who his controllers were trying to deflate. John grimaced as he read the words he would be forced to say on his next show.

"Eh mon, you like Mayinkan music Paco? Or is it Hadji? Well here's something for your (John: inflect next two words) very discriminating darkling ears! This band's lead guitarist is so exciting he's putting insomniacs to sleep all over the country... there are plans to start marketing him as the next big thing in sedatives! Have you guessed yet who we're talking about here? Why it's none other than the Cool Banditos, with their new hit "Cobalt Dream"... whatever that means! You figure it out... after you wake up! Ok, put on your nightcaps kids, here it is!" (John: now play song).

John put down the stack of cards, unwilling to read any more. It was obvious his paymasters were targeting Carlos Fontana, the main force behind the Cool Banditos, and it was equally obvious why. Fontana was in diametric opposition to everything that was happening in entertainment today, and the success of upstart bands like the Banditos was an affront to the new show–business power structure. The cruel irony was that John really admired Carlos' music and guitar playing, and had genuinely liked the dark, intelligent young lad and his sidekick, David Slasher, when his brother had introduced them to him. But his brother had told him that Carlos was also very concerned about what was happening to the country today, and was somewhat of a high–risk because of his penchant for trying to distribute propoganda criticizing the Wolfen government, tractates that he authored himself. John knew that things like that would bring the government down on Carlos like a starving wolf pack on an elk if they were discovered, and he was in danger of being arrested and jailed... or worse. It seemed that his fate was also in the hands of immensely powerful people whose sanity was highly suspect... the same types of people that had taken control of his own career, and had caused him to obsess on maintaining his firearms. Dangerous people.

The truth was becoming increasingly evident to the more aware political analysts, and was gradually trickling down a small slice of the more literate of the masses; the UFS was very much influenced, if not outrightly controlled, by the much smaller country of Usheria and its proponents. What wasn't so evident was the method by which this control was gained and maintained, a complicated web of deceit involving different financial, political, religious and mass–media factors. With all the things he had going on in his life, John really didn't have time to make a study of the complex subject himself, and that was what worried him most; if John, who actually enjoyed reading about such things, didn't make time to read literature which wasn't mass–distributed and therefore not readily available to the public, who the hell else would? They would leave it to the next guy to deal with... just like John was doing. And therein lay the secret of the Usher's success; nobody responded to an invisible threat. As such, it seemed as if their victory was inevitable.

John rose from the comfort of his chair and stretched slowly, yawning. He had already prepared everything he needed for the night; all he had to do was write a note to his only family member, his little brother Frances, explaining his decision to go through with this, and why he felt he had no other choice. How they had turned him into something he despised, something he could no longer bear being; how it was far too late to undo the damage he had done to his formerly "good" name, and the pain it was causing him to watch the degradation continue.

John walked over to his desk and sat down before a stack of papers. Pushing them aside, he picked up the fancy pen Frances had given him as a birthday present and a yellow legal pad, and began to write "Dear Frances" -- then suddenly stopped. A smile spread over his face as he remembered that his little brother hated being called Frances; that was why he had always teasingly called him that. Suddenly John's mind was flooded with vivid scenes from his and Frances' past: they had both started out in separate orphanages after their parents had abandoned them as infants; neither of the boys could even remember their mother. They had survived that misfortune and John had located and reunited with Frances while still a pre–teenager, going to work to support them both so as to keep them out of the fearsome, hated public institutions. As the years went by the hard–working John had put Frances through school, paying his costs, making sure he was prepared for the world that John knew could be as hard as nails to an unproperly prepared young person. When John had started making it big, he had used his many contacts to help Frances become a successful entertainment industry businessman himself. It had seemed as if their story was going to have a happy ending; then the bad changes had started happening, and things had eventually progressed to their present dismal and intolerable state.

Forcing the past from his mind, John began writing. An hour later, he was finished. Tearing off the pages of the pad, he put them into an envelope and wrote "To Frances" in large, neat letters on the front; then standing up once more, he stretched and yawned again. He walked back over to his easy chair but didn't sit down, instead gently laying his envelope and Frances' expensive gift pen on the tabletop. Picking up his huge handgun, John raised it to his mouth as he turned to look out his huge picture window at the beautiful city lights, for the last time.

Suddenly an errant thought surfaced from the depths of his amazingly calm and collected mind. John had willed his beautiful hilltop house and all of his valuable, precious possessions to Frances, his sole heir. If he blew his brains out, the blood would splatter over some of the rare, expensive furniture, and Frances would have to pay to have it cleaned. It might not even come out.

John cursed under his breath and put the gun down. Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room and went upstairs to his bedroom, where he grabbed an enormously thick bathrobe from the large walk-in closet; then he made his way down the stairs and back to his living room. Returning to his chair, he picked up the pistol once more. The jazz record was entering a beautifully transcendant phase, and he felt at peace with himself. John wrapped the thick bathrobe into a bundle. Then, reaching back uncomfortably, he held it behind his head with one hand while he raised the fearsome–looking pistol to his mouth with the other.

"Aw, shit..." John cursed again as he dropped the bathrobe and set the gun back down on the table. Picking up Frances' pen one more time, he crossed out the word "Frances" on the envelope and wrote "Frank" in large letters. Then, sighing, he gently laid the beautiful pen back down on the table for the last time.

As he positioned his bathrobe behind his head and raised the gun to his mouth for the third time, John began to laugh. "Do it now! While you're still laughing!" he told himself. Turning to face the picture window again, he paused for a second; the view was spectacular, as always.

Still chuckling, he took a last breath and pulled the trigger. The last thing he saw were the city lights sparkling in the night.

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Copyright 2006, 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino.