CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 22

David Slasher threw his car into gear and floored it down the street, looking back through his rearview mirror at Carlos standing on the sidewalk in front of his mother's house, glaring at him.

Slasher had just dropped Carlos off at his mother's residence, after the two partners had exploded into the worst argument of their short musical careers. It had started at the restaurant where they were eating breakfast while discussing their upcoming tour; then as they got into the privacy of Slasher's car they had really gotten into it, hard and heavy. It seemed that Frank Fortune had over–extended himself financially, after giving the band members a $40,000 advance while simultaneously giving his recently deceased brother, Wolfman Johnny, the grandest funeral he could afford; after the funeral Frank had single–handedly paid for a huge church service and a lavish dinner for all of the famous friends of Wolfman Johnny that had come to pay their respects. This had resulted in a temporary cash flow problem that was jeopardizing his current plan, the excellent countrywide tour he had worked long and hard to set up with his partners and backers.

Fortune had called Fontana, not Slasher, and in view of the potentially disastrous situation Carlos had given Fortune permission to sign them up as the opening act for the disgusting Usher–rock band Wall of Voodoo Children, in order to raise some quick cash and proceed with their big tour plans. To Slasher, opening for the Wall of Voodoo simians was the grossest insult that could ever be dealt out to him, and should have been for Carlos too, as Carlos was Mayinkan.

Wall of Voodoo Children was an unacceptably, ridiculously, repugnantly untalented corporate cock–up geek-rock band, consisting of five or six loathsome, ugly, repulsive, obnoxious and extremely stupid Ushers who had rocketed to fame on the strength of their one "hit" single, Mayinkan Radio.

Slasher grimaced as he recalled the song's wretched lyrics: "I'm on Mayinkan... radio! I'm on a my, my, my, Mayinkan... radio!" This absurd travesty of "rock" music had been accompanied by a blatantly racist music video, which had been played relentlessly by the shamefully popular Usher music television channel NTV in conformance with classic Usher entertainment industry rules, which meant complete abandonment of any perceivable standards of taste, decency or propriety. This was one of the foolproof methods by which the Ushers made their foul, dirty money off of an alarmingly increasing, insipid and moronic music buying public, which they themselves had created; because they spread a little bit of the wealth around to their attendant industry lackeys, critics and journalists, these profit–making tactics were never questioned or challenged.

In fact, NTV was actually the acronym for Nirvana Television; the name "nirvana" was meant to honor another totally inept Usher–rock band called "The Nirvanics." This now defunct "nirvanic" band had a strange history indeed; it had risen to superstar status not on the merits of its music, which was typical rage–rock feces, but because the loathsome, obviously insane but very wealthy Usher entertainment mogul David Geeken had used his never–ending supply of ready cash to hype, re–hype, and ultra–hype this pathetically unmusical group of self-deluding pretenders. But at the apex of their undeserved glory The Nirvanics' lead singer Curtis Kobainey, realizing that he was being falsely promoted as THE new rock god, and knowing that he couldn't possibly back up Geeken's false hype (as his and his band's lack of talent was clearly obvious to anyone who had musical ears and a little bit of class), had blown his poor brains out, breaking the hearts of millions of young NTV–addicted kids throughout the country. The two remaining members of The Nirvanics had started another equally insipid but still very popular "hard rock" band, which the absurd critics of the day dutifully showered with glowing praise. This was the the pathetically sad state that rock music had descended to, under the auspices of Ushers like David Geeken.

But Wall of Voodoo Children was still very much alive and kicking, and their idiotic song, with it's palpably nauseating companion video, appealed enormously to self–loathing Ushers of all classes, shapes and sizes. It resonated as well with the thronging multitudes of white trash, long-haired redneck hicks stewing in their own low self–esteem; also with anyone else who comported himself more like an ape in the wild than an intelligent human being living in a civilized society. Needless to say, Wall of Voodoo Children was a very popular and profitable band.

Slasher cursed under his breath as he accelerated his late-model sports car down the street. To David's credit, the thought of hitting or even insulting the creatively gifted Fontana was completely out of the question, and never even entered his head; he realized that Carlos was under extreme pressure, as he was the driving force behind the Cool Banditos and had a greater responsibility to bear. Carlos wrote most of the music and lyrics, and his incendiary guitarmanship was what made the band stand out, and was what had compelled Frank Fortune to take them under his wing.

But Slasher needed to hit someone; he was enraged at the prospect of having to open again for another revolting band of posers who didn't even try to hide the fact that they couldn't play any musical instruments; their background music was provided by somewhat less ridiculous rage–rock "musicians," and all Wall of Voodoo Children had to do was stand there in their abject homeliness and sing, or whatever it was they claimed to be doing. The whole farcical thing was just too disgusting to accept.

When Carlos had broken the news to him in the restaurant, Slasher had completely lost it.
At first he had merely raised his voice in indignation, but this had rapidly escalated to yelling and cursing, causing the rest of the patrons to stop their conversing as they watched the two young long–hairs argue.

Carlos apologized profusely to David, attempting to explain that it was an absolutely necessary sacrifice and was the last insult they would have to endure from such vermin. But David could not be calmed and Carlos, succumbing to the enormous stress he was always under, had ultimately lost his temper and began chewing Slasher out in front of the onlooking crowd. They had hurriedly paid the bill and exited to Slasher's car, where the fight had escalated. David had only stopped when Carlos, who was by that time just as enraged as Slasher, threatened to walk out on the entire tour and start a new band by himself. It was not an idle threat; with the success of their first release, Carlos now had a large number of talented musicians eagerly lining up for a chance to play with him.

David eased up on the gas pedal and began trying to compose himself again. He realized that Carlos had broken up with Katrina under mysterious circumstances, and that he was probably heartbroken; Katrina could do that to a guy, even though she wasn't a mean person. But Carlos had avoided any talk on the subject, and David had come to accept the fact that Katrina had let him go -- although it was completely out of character for her to lead someone on and then dump him so quickly.

Slasher reached over and turned his car radio on very loud to test the new speakers he had just installed, and out spewed the revoltingly putrid lines: "I'm on Mayinkan... radio! I'm on a my, my, my....". Cursing, he switched off the radio as he felt his rage coming back full on; all he wanted now was to find someone big and worthy of being thrashed, and thrash the hell out of him. And as he sped along, he suddenly seized upon the perfect victim; Bill Bronsky, that obsessively homophobic moron bully who had been giving him dirty looks. In spite of his busy schedule, Slasher had been practicing his martial arts drills religiously and was in tip–top fighting shape. And he knew exactly where to find Bronsky; at The Spot, drinking and blustering with his idiot friends. David smiled to himself and once more stepped on the gas. The sound of his powerful sports car's revving engine was making him feel good. Real good.

Slasher reached over to his glove compartment to get the new tape that he and Carlos had just recorded of their newest song, which was their best one yet, but was annoyed to find that it wasn't there -- Fontana still had it. David needed to hear the instrumental track in order to begin improvising some lyrics, which he would of course have to turn over to Fontana for his approval. Carlos was very busy and David wouldn't see him for another day or two; if he didn't turn around right now and catch him before he finished delivering a check to his mother, Carlos would quickly call a taxi to whisk him away and Slasher would have to wait. And he really needed to hear that song.

Cursing again, Slasher threw his vehicle into a violent 180 degree turnaround and once again floored it as he headed back to Carlos' mother's house, hoping to catch Carlos before he went inside.

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Listening to the newest rage-rock song to hit the airwaves, John Boot sat in his car watching Carlos Fontana, who was still standing on the sidewalk across the street from him after being dropped off at his mother's house by some blonde kid. Boot was smoking freebase from a crack pipe, occasionally taking a snort of the cocaine powder in his little glass vial; this was how he usually prepared for a job. He liked the feeling of beating someone to a pulp while he was really high; it gave him a stimulating rush.

Carefully putting down his pipe, he opened his car door, got out and stretched for a moment. Then he began walking toward Fontana, exhibiting a friendly grin. Fontana didn't notice him at first; he was staring down the street at nothing in particular, an angry look on his face. He only looked at Boot when the giant walked right up and stood before him, towering over the guitarist.

As Carlos looked up into Boot's scarred face, he immediately began to suspect that something was about to happen; something unpleasant. He had been approached like this many times before by grinning antagonists, who had then proceeded to give him a hard time; on more than one occasion he had been goaded into a fistfight, and had always been blamed for the altercation. This had taught him a hard lesson: if he didn't let his adversary hit him first and leave a bruise or some kind of proof that he had been defending himself, Carlos was likely to be arrested for assault and battery; a bruise or a cut was the only way of escaping a prison sentence.

Still grinning, Boot stared into Fontana's dark brown eyes for a few seconds before speaking.

"Hey, aren't you Carlos Fontana?" Boot asked, in a pleasant enough voice.

Carlos exhaled in relief; he had already been approached for autographs from new fans and admirers of his first hit song, which was now being played regularly on the radio. Forcing a smile, he replied to Boot. "Last time I looked I was... how ya' doing, buddy?"

"Real good, faggot... hey, what's it like fucking a dog? I've never done that before!" Boot's grin spread even wider, as he poked a huge index finger hard into Carlos' chest.

Carlos stared back into the huge man's soulless grey–black eyes and his mind began racing, as he suddenly realized that Boot was a paid hit–man who had been sent by his Usher enemies; they always knew where to find him, as they were always watching him. An attack was imminent, and Boot looked like a huge starving grizzly bear examining a cornered deer he was going to kill and eat for dinner. For a brief second Carlos thought of making a dash for his mother's house, but suddenly remembered that he didn't have the key anymore. He probably wouldn't have made it anyway.

Grinning like a madman, Boot gave Carlos a rough shove, sending him stumbling backwards a few feet before he regained his balance. Carlos kept his composure, staring his antagonist down as he considered his next move. He hadn't forgotten that he had to let Boot black his eye or leave some kind of bruise or cut on his person before he could begin to defend himself, or else he would probably be blamed for anything that happened... his life was just like that. But Boot's poke and shove had given him a good idea of the goon's strength; he realized that the huge man could probably beat him to death with his bare hands, if he so desired. If Carlos waited for Boot to start in on him, he might not even get a chance to defend himself. Reluctantly, Carlos reached for the switchblade he always carried in his back pocket, and his heart sank as he realized it wasn't there. In his hurry, he had forgotten to pick it up from his bedside table that morning. He began to experience a feeling of real fear, bordering on full-fledged panic.

Boot watched Carlos' face intently, registering on his dismayed expression and it's signification. "Forgot your gun, huh? That was a dumb move, dog–fucker! Now I'm gonna' show you what I like to do to dog–fucking faggots..." Still wearing his stupid grin, Boot began to advance upon his victim. But as he stared into Carlos' face, he saw his eyes momentarily glance away at something behind him. A few seconds later Boot felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and jerked his head around to see who it was. To his annoyance, the blonde kid who had just dropped Fontana off was back again, standing behind him... and smiling.

Boot gave Slasher a menacing look. "You his faggot friend? Better blow, queer... I don't like queebies!"

The kid's friendly smile slowly spread into a supremely confident grin, revealing a row of perfectly spaced, shining white teeth. He continued to stand there, not moving. Something about the kid's demeanor troubled Boot; he had never seen this before, not from someone as small as this blonde guy. But no matter; he would beat them both to a pulp and get reimbursement from Jacob Rosenberg later for the extra work he had to do. Giving Carlos another hard shove back, Boot turned around to face the kid.

"Ok, kid... it's your funeral! What do you want on your tombstone?" he said, laughing cruelly. Drawing a clenched fist back, Boot swung his patented right uppercut, intending to knock the kid out quickly with one blow; then he would proceed to beat Fontana to jelly. But the kid reacted with lightning speed; blocking Boot's punch, he swiftly grabbed his arm, spun around and bent over, using Boot's own momentum to flip him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Incredibly, Boot found himself flying through the air, his feet over his head. He landed heavily on the sidewalk at the kid's feet, the wind knocked completely out of him. He lay there for a moment staring up at the cloudless blue summer sky.

"My tombstone? Just put, 'he loved to kick big faggot ass!'" The kid giggled like a silly bitch, enraging Boot. He quickly rose to his feet and turned to face this more formidable new opponent, who was still grinning like a cheshire cat in a tree. "Oh, judo huh? I can deal with it..." Boot hauled off and swung another hay–maker, much harder this time. But the kid blocked it again, moving amazingly fast; then making a stiff blade of his other hand, he jabbed Boot hard in the throat, causing him to emit a howl of agony. He hadn't stopped grinning yet.

Boot doubled over, holding his throat as he went into a spasm of coughing and gagging. But the kid wasn't done with him. "Come on now... up with ya!" He began gently kicking Boot in the shin, giggling again. In spite of the severe pain in his throat, Boot forced himself back up and into a fighting stance, putting up his dukes to defend his honor... but to no avail. The kid turned around as if he were about to walk away -- then suddenly his right foot was coming back up at Boot in a hard roundhouse kick to the jaw. Boot's head snapped violently back, cutting off his oxygen. He felt himself temporarily blacking out as he dropped to the sidewalk for a second time. When his head cleared he was laying at the kid's feet again.

Boot suddenly heard the screaming laughter of children and looking around, he saw that the little Mayinkan kids who had been playing down the block were watching this small blonde kid kick his ass, and loving it. He lay on the sidewalk for another couple of seconds staring up at the sky in disbelief. This couldn't be happening to him... the kid barely came up to his chin! Making a supreme effort, Boot staggered to his feet once more -- only to be immediately dropped again by an unbelievably fast barrage of karate punches to his stomach, chest and jaw. Falling to the ground as his knees buckled under him, Boot lay still in a heap on the sidewalk, not knowing exactly what to do next.

Still more little Mayinkan kids were amassing up and down the block, laughing hysterically at the mismatched fight. Parents were starting to come out of their houses to see what all the commotion was about. Neighborhood dogs began barking loudly as the crowd rapidly grew. Boot decided it was high time to leave... he had changed the license plates on his car, as was his usual custom before doing a job, just in case any witnesses wrote down his number. He could simply get into his car and drive away... if he could get free of the blonde kid.

Boot lurched to his feet again, turning and running towards his car which was parked a little ways down and across the street. He had only gotten a few feet when he was sent sprawling back to the sidewalk by a hard kick to his derriere.

The blonde kid was laughing softly to himself again. "I tell ya, I just love this..." The little neighborhood children were not so subdued -- they were besides themselves, completely in stitches. Even the parents were laughing at him. Afraid to get up again, Boot just lay there looking at a line of ants crossing through a crack in the sidewalk. He had never felt so humiliated in his entire life.

A couple of seconds passed as Slasher stood a few feet away, looking down at Boot... still grinning. Boot slowly got to his feet. "Ok, ok, I'm history... sorry... later..." Raising one hand in a gesture of surrender, he started to limp lamely away.

"What... you're leaving me so soon? I... am... heartbroken!" Slasher delivered another hard kick to Boot's ass. This time Boot hit the ground running. Abandoning his car, he fled for his life, sprinting at top speed down the street... he could always come back later and get the damn car. For now, all Boot wanted was to get away from the superkid from hell, while he could still move.

"Y'all come back now... hear?" Slasher called out in a friendly country drawl, as he watched John Boot high–tailing it down the sidewalk. By this time the entire neighborhood was lined up on the sidewalks on either side of the street... their hysterical laughter burned Boot's ears as he ran as fast as he could down the block, finally disappearing around a corner. Nobody had ever seen anything like this before.

Slasher wiped his hands on his pants and stood there smirking for a few moments. He had completely and absolutely discharged his rage at having to open for the miserable Voodoo Wallers, or Wall Crawlers, or whatever the hell they called themselves. Now it wouldn't be so bad... and they only had to do it one more time, this humiliating ordeal of opening for howler monkeys. And after that they would be linking up with their hero Van Norrisman, and setting off on the epic tour that would make Carlos and himself millionaires. Now he would be able to go through with it; just one more time.

Carlos Fontana stood placidly on the sidewalk in front of his mother's little house, taking in the scenario with one eyebrow raised. He had heard about Slasher's fighting abilities, how Slasher regularly silenced his large jealous enemies who outweighed him by dozens of pounds -- but Carlos had never actually seen him in action until now. David never gave the slightest intimation that he would ever even get into a fight; his demeanor was usually pleasant and non–threatening, even when annoyed. This was just too funny... as Carlos looked around at the laughing crowds lining both sides of the street, he found himself struggling hard to keep his composure as David walked back up the street towards him, a comically effete, self–satisfied smile on his face.

"David," Carlos deadpanned as Slasher drew nearer. "You really must try to treat our fans with more respect."

"Carlos... you really should try to be less provocative with people," Slasher riposted, keeping a perfectly straight face. "People are nice."

Giving up, Carlos burst out into a rare and uncharacteristic display of belly–ache laughter, venting all of the frustration, worry and stress that had been building up inside him for months. Gradually getting himself back under control, Carlos attempted to make another stolid comment... only to succumb to another attack of uncontrollable mirth as he doubled over, holding his stomach.

David calmly watched his friend unwinding. This was an unusual occurrence indeed; in fact, he had never seen Carlos let go of himself like this, ever. He waited patiently for his partner to recover from his fit of hysterics. Then stepping up close, Slasher looked him in the eye, a stern expression on his face.

"Where's my tape, asshole?"

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Copyright 2006, 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino.