CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 21

"They should be exterminated!" Frank Fortune roared as he hurled his glass into the fire, causing it to hiss and emit sparks in the large ornate chimneyplace.

David Slasher calmly sipped his margarita as he sat in one of Fortune's comfortable leather easy chairs, one leg crossed over the other, his face an expressionless mask. He had seen this kind of outburst several times before, and over the same thing. Secret manipulation of financial/political matters extending to the highest levels and involving many different countries, supposedly by super-rich, highly organized Ushers who manipulated and played hapless people off of each other as if they were marionettes. It was the kind of stuff Carlos was interested in, but he never exploded into rage like Frank was doing now. The best thing to do, thought Slasher, was just sit there and let Fortune rave on, draining himself.

Slasher could well understand Fortune's rage; he had just received a message that his older brother, the world–famous radio announcer known as Wolfman Johnny, had committed suicide in the living room of his beautiful hilltop house... which was now Fortune's. Frank had not taken the news well; although he hadn't cancelled his business meeting with Carlos and David, he had started drinking well before they got there, repeatedly reading and brooding over his brother's final missive to him. Although the letter said nothing about blaming Ushers per se, Frank was ranting to them that it was "the" Ushers' manipulation of his brother that had led to his self–inflicted death, and was categorically citing incident after incident involving Usher domination of their helpless pawns, events that had ended in tragedy.

As Frank carried on he frequently turned to look at Carlos, as if he were waiting for a sign of encouragement or support from the guitarist. Frank knew that Carlos was very much interested in conspiracy theories, and knew as much or more than he did about the Ushers and the ways they established and held control; he knew this from reading pirated copies of some of the pamphlets Carlos had printed up and passed around. Carlos was completely oblivious as to how many people were interested in him and his doomsday/bright–possible–future theories, or how many of his readers agreed with many of the things he wrote, copying his works and circulating them around to other people themselves.

There was a Carlos cult that was already in place before he started becoming publicly well–known as a rising musician. His self–published views were respected even by conservatives for their even–handedness, because he never actually named the Ushers as a race or religion in an accusatory way, and always mentioned something about the immorality, if not the counter–productivity, of beating up on innocent people. Carlos often pointed out that such actions would only compel innocent but affronted people to join and support other not–so–innocent people who had duped them into believing that they were very much interested in their well–being and safety... when in fact it was the outrageous excesses of those not–so–innocent people that were primarily responsible for the affronts they had suffered in the first place!

But Frank Fortune was in no mood to talk about Carlos' "innocent" Ushers or "good" Ushers; he was becoming more and more inclined to view the "good Ushers" as expendable baggage, something the world could do without if that was what it took to stop it's present frightening decline, for which he blamed "The" Ushers. And he was beginning to make statements revealing this new blanket condemnation of all Ushers in his conversations with people.

Carlos fidgeted nervously in Fortune's other easy chair, raising his drink up to his lips, then bringing it back down again without taking a sip. He could empathize with Frank's grief–induced anger, remembering the many times that he had himself exploded in the privacy of his bedroom after figuring out that some seemingly random misfortune he had suffered had almost certainly been caused by the collusions of powerful Ushers, in their never–ending quest to rile and lower him to their level of viciousness. Yes, Carlos could fully relate to what Frank was going through right now. He had always respected Frank for his normally open mind, and had never thought of him as an ignorant, common racist or a knee–jerk extremist, not yet at least. His reaction to his brother's suicide was understandable, and Frank had Carlos' deepest sympathy. He knew exactly how Frank was going to feel after he had calmed down; torn apart by conflicting feelings of guilt and vengeful hatred. Not wanting to hate, but feeling afraid to let his guard down and unconditionally forgive a group of people who had hurt him so badly.

Something had always warned Carlos about the dangers of letting himself give in to unrestrained hatred. True, there were many Ushers that had tried hard to hinder and hurt him, and had been very successful in their attempts. But there was something about arbitrarily despising innocent people, people who had done nothing to hurt him and who probably never would, that surreptitiously destroyed his will to succeed more than any other self–detrimental thing he did. And as he listened on to Frank's frighteningly accurate and valid diatribe he began to think of Katrina, and her security in an increasingly contentious world where people shot first and asked questions later... thoughts that made him shudder. Now Carlos avoided Frank's eyes, looking at the expensive paintings adorning his walls as he carefully considered both sides of the issue -- for the thousandth time.

Frank exhaled loudly, turning back to face the crackling fire again. As a non–Usher manager/promoter in the entertainment business, he had seen more than his share of favoritism extended to Ushers and the select non–Ushers who collaborated with them in almost every aspect of the business, whether it concerned the price or availability of concert locales, hidden fees and penalties that could suddenly be levied at the drop of a hat, labor or security issues, or any other thing that might come up while trying to put on a show; needless to say, he was somewhat less than pleased with this completely unfair arrangement. And he had also gotten an "insider's" perspective as to some of the sicker things that had regularly occurred in rock music's relatively brief history, things he was angrily revealing now to his uncomfortable guests.

Frank turned to Slasher. "And I hate to tell you this Dave, but your friend Nicky Jagwire is one of them! Ever listen carefully to the lyrics of his song, Sympathy for Satan? He's gloating with the Rothmans, those Usher cunts that control his fucking country Longlandia. And all the dumbshits listen to that song and sing along, happy as a bunch of clowns... do you know what he's singing about? He's bragging about all the terrible things the Ushers have done over the millennia, like the crucifixion of Christ! He's gloating about all the wars and violence and death... and they've got all of the ignorant fools singing along with them, singing their tune!"

David sat quietly holding his drink, nodding his head almost imperceptibly as he subtly encouraged Frank to vent himself, hoping that the tirade would stop sometime soon. David was not a naive person; he knew that Nicky Jagwire was heavily involved in the entertainment industry battles and wars that raged just below the smooth, apparently untroubled surface of rock and roll, things the public never heard about. But what Frank was saying, that Jagwire was one of the swinish Ushers who were ruining entertainment, was troubling; it didn't comport with what he had come to believe about his benefactor. After all, it was Nicky Jagwire who had linked David up with Frank Fortune and had gotten the whole wild ball rolling. He continued to listen, taking intermittant sips from his drink.

Frank turned to face Carlos again, finally querying him point–blank: "What do you think, Carlos?"

Carlos fingered his glass, thinking hard about how he would respond to Frank. He had read a lot about Nicky Jagwire and his band; between their biographies, autobiographies, newspaper and magazine interviews and other articles, Carlos had pieced together enough information to form an opinion on his new paymaster and the probable circumstances under which Jagwire had written the song "Sympathy for Satan."

In the halcyon days of rock when stars like Jagwire and his partner Richard Richer first started becoming famous, the police had begun harrassing them incessantly, often raiding the studios where they recorded their songs. Jagwire and Richer had both been arrested for possession of a few marijuana cigarettes and were accordingly thrown into jail for a well–deserved number of decades, by way of making them pay for their heinous crimes against society. But Carlos' research had disclosed that the two rock stars had been mysteriously and completely cleared of all charges by the court, and had been released to record their new song Sympathy for Satan, a song which Carlos firmly believed was either written by somebody other than Jagwire, or else written by him under coercion.

The song's lyrics seemed to come from the perspective of a Usher financier who regarded himself as an earthly Satan, and who had grown so rich and powerful that he could now afford to safely brag about his splendid misdeeds and evil accomplishments, such as murdering entire families of the nobility of certain countries. The song's protagonist had even taken credit for the legendary crucifixion–execution of a Usher scholar and preacher who had been labeled the Christ, or "Son of God," an act that had given rise to a religious movement which had endured for millennia, and which certain Ushers seemed intent on destroying. The song ended with the financier/devil admitting that he needed to be restrained from crushing the powerless but still very discourteous and unsympathetic souls that riled him, and warning them to be mindful of their manners.

"I think the way it went, Frank," said Carlos, "was that the Rothmans got the police to lean on Nicky and Richard, arrest them for a couple of joints and threaten them with long jail sentences... then the Rothmans turned around and came to their rescue, got the police to leave them alone... if Nicky Jagwire agreed to sing their little "Sympathy" song. It's my belief that they probably had absolutely no choice in the matter... it was probably do the song, or else go back to jail for a couple of decades. You gotta' ask yourself what you would have done in that situation..." Carlos raised his drink to his mouth and took a sip, looking out the window at Fortune's beautiful rose garden and hoping his answer hadn't angered Frank even more.

Fortune turned back to the fireplace, scowling down at the crackling flames and saying nothing. Of course Carlos was right... it was just another case of unidentified Ushers totally and insidiously manuevering the poor hapless souls that had come under their complete control. Nevertheless, Frank still couldn't completely trust Nicky Jagwire, who seemingly was being ruled by people that were clearly insane... people who wielded absolute power, corruptive power that had driven them mad. He still had to be nice to Nicky though, as his boys were signed to the man's record label for at least another year. It was going to be a very long year, he mentally groaned to himself.

Still looking down at the fire, Frank's features slowly broke out into a little smile. It was going to be a very profitable year, and he had things all set up for an even more profitable future. These kids had talent, these cool banditos; good old–fashioned consistent talent, the kind you could bank on. Frank had single–handedly discovered and launched them; he would reap a good portion of the rewards that were sure to come. And Frank needed to amass a lot of money to finance the project which he was now planning out; the one that had started spinning through his head from the moment he found out that his brother had killed himself. Frank needed money for revenge... and he was going to get both. The opportunities for huge profits were beginning to materialize out of thin air as "Cobalt Dream," their first song to hit the charts, continued to climb and sell like mad.

Fortune's mind came racing back around to the business at hand; the fabulous upcoming tour that he and several of his promoter colleagues had spent months planning, featuring superstar artists that actually did possess real talent -- not the fakes and phonys that were now parading about. The Cool Banditos would be the perfect "new" band to open for these real superstars. Frank had been looking forward to telling Carlos and David that all the little problems had been settled and the tour was going to happen, after they had complained bitterly to him about their first concert, where Frank had made them open for a bunch of no–talent vermin who couldn't even play their instruments. But there would be no more of that.

Frank turned around to face his two young guests again, but his face no longer reflected the pain and rage he had felt earlier. "Ok boys, let's get down to business. This tour is going to cover fifteen states across the entire country and if everything works out, it's going to bring in a lot of millions. And... this time you'll be opening for some of your favorite heroes..."

"Goons in Poses!" shouted David, raising his glass in a mock toast.

"No more rage–rockers, ok Frank? It's bad for the self–esteem," Carlos chimed in.

Frank laughed. "No, no you guys, don't worry... no more groveling. This time around you're gonna' open for..." he paused for a moment, letting the suspense build up, watching his musicians as they stared back at him intently. Finally he broke into a big grin. "Ever hear of Van Norrisman?"

Carlos and David looked at each other for a second... then broke out in loud whoops of joy. Jumping up from their chairs, they grabbed each other and began to dance about the room, laughing and talking excitedly as Fortune looked on in amusement. Van "The Man" Norrisman was Carlos and David's number one favorite songwriter and singer; they had both agreed that his powerful, poetic lyrics and soulful vocals were the authoritative standard that they should strive to emulate. In their opinion, Van matched and surpassed the works of more successful and higher–grossing superstars like Neil Corona or even Magic Shimmerman. Van the Man was the last hold–out who had refused to grovel to the crass "formula" movement that was sweeping the music world. He had refused to sell out to Usher billionaires who regularly made him lucrative offers in an ignoble attempt to bring this maddeningly independent artist under their thumbs, sums which he supposedly "couldn't refuse." Although he wasn't the multi–millionaire that his sell-out peers had become, he enjoyed a spotlessly clean reputation and was respected and even revered by music lovers of discriminating taste all over the civilized world. And he still made damn good money anyway. To open for Van would be the honor of their young lives.

Fortune went over to the wet bar, got a new glass and poured himself another drink. He turned and watched the two musicians still dancing around his living room, breaking out into a loud laugh. He was starting to feel a little bit better; he was going to recover from this emotional setback and come back stronger than ever. Then he would get to work rooting out the identities of the people who had manipulated his brother John, and had driven him to suicide. It would be fun; it would give him a purpose in life, a real raison d'etre. But first he had some urgent business matters to deal with; extremely lucrative matters.

His young charges had switched to a slow waltz as they continued to dance each other about the spacious room, talking about the upcoming tour and their imminent plans in comically quiet voices, like two lovers discussing their wedding. Frank went to his stereo and thumbed through his stack of music discs, pulling out his Cool Banditos recording and inserting it into his disc player. Turning the volume up loud, he raised his glass high in a solemn toast to the waltzing lovers. Grinning, Frank knocked off his entire drink in one fell swoop, feeling a euphoric rush sweeping over him. He was getting back on track, and there was much to be done. That's the way Frank liked things; busy.

As he stood grooving along to the fast–paced, stimulating music, Frank exalted over the fact that the Cool Banditos' new release was climbing up the charts so rapidly. With their already recorded follow–up releases sounding just as good as the first one, there was every indication that he and the boys were going to make it really big. He had felt confident enough to give the band generous advances to help them get prepared for the tour, cutting four ten–thousand dollar checks, one to each band member. It was probably more money than any of them had ever had at one time, and Frank felt certain that their tour earnings would dwarf that amount.

Yes, things were looking up for him. And he could wait for his revenge... he would start on that project right after the tour was over. He would devote himself to it; it would give him a new lease on life, a reason to go on.

Frank picked up a pair of dark black sunglasses that were lying next to his stereo player. Putting them on, he turned back around again to watch the two young waltzers.

"Hey you guys, listen!" He yelled, waving his hand in the air. "The future's looking so bright, we're all gonna' need shades!"

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Copyright 2006, 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino.