CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2020

________________________________________________

Chapter 36

Carlos was in a thoughtful state of mind, as he poured himself another cup of hot coffee from the carafe on the counter of his small kitchenette... then emptied it down the sink drain. He had been drinking a lot of coffee lately, and combined with the pressures from his many tasks and responsibilities, it was starting to affect him adversely -- he had been experiencing brief spells of light-headedness, in spite of the fact that he had stopped smoking pot in anticipation of his upcoming wedding with Katrina. He was thankful that he finally had found the strength to kick his obsessive marijuana habit; he quite simply didn't need it anymore and now, with his head clearer, he could see that it had slowed him down tremendously anyway. But the coffee could be just as bad or even worse, in its own way.

Carlos had very tactfully removed himself from the beautiful Fury residence, telling Gail that his mother was ill and he needed to be close by to assist her. He was renting budget hotel rooms, even though he still had several thousand dollars in his bank account; after all, there was no actual guarantee that he and his bandmates would get paid anything more than the modest advance Frank Fortune had doled out to them, and it was just part of his nature not to take things for granted. In the music business, a major disruption of plans could and often did happen suddenly, especially since the music business, like the rest of the entertainment industry, was an instrument of Usher mind control as well as being a great money-making machine. "Outside" promoters like Frank Fortune were just a small cog in the sordid gears, and Frank had made a lot of enemies for himself by not knuckling under to the Usher's protocols. No one knew the danger of this better than Carlos -- except possibly Frank himself.

But he still wasn't real worried; actually, everything was coming together marvelously for the tour. Frank had somehow managed to secure financing outside of the Usher's realm; he had many friends and associates who also resented their near-total domination of the rock concert circuit and were eager to invest in his gambit, which was promising to be extremely rewarding. There was still a high demand for quality rock and pop music from the more knowledgable cut of the music market, even though some Ushers (like the now infamous David Geeken) had brought in the clowns with their ridiculous, asinine, but very profitable rage and schmuck-rock offerings. A class line-up like the one Frank was promising just wasn't likely to fail.

A knock on the door brought him to his feet. He had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of David Slasher, who had become one of his closest and most trusted friends, second only to his beloved Katrina; they had a lot of important music and business matters to take care of. As usual, he had the hotel room door double-locked; that pitiful paranoia had also become part of his nature. Walking quickly to the door, he quickly flipped the lock and opened it.

A grinning Slasher entered the room and immediately threw a mock punch and kick at Carlos, who quickly assumed a defensive position, knees bent low and hands stiffened into two karate-looking blades. But Slasher, still grinning, dropped his attack and went straight for the television set, which was of course turned off. Turning to sneer at Carlos, David picked up the remote control and turned the "idiot box" on, as Carlos began to protest.

"Hold it right there buddy, you're gunna-wanna see this!" said David. Carlos sighed in resignation as an image of three men seated in chairs appeared on the screen -- sometimes the fun-loving Slasher could push his patience almost to the limit. But this was very unusual behaviour for David, who was not one to waste his time (or insult his own intelligence) by watching insipid daytime t.v. programs, especially since the programming had become so very mean and obnoxious over the years. Carlos' curiosity started to become aroused.

"Ha ha ha! They're picking a new Knee!" Slasher chortled. "I heard it on the radio... they've got this little battle going on David Litterbugg Today, between these two schmucks from Westview... who just happen to be very good friends of yours!" Slasher's impish grin was in full-on mode now. "You remember those two little geeks Mike Fooze and Matt Boneschwanker, don't you? Well, they're rage-rock stars now! Look, they're on Litterbugg's new daytime talk show!"

"Litterbugg?! Oh gaaawd, David, what are you trying to do? Turn that goddamned... What?" Carlos interrupted himself in mid-sentence. "Mike Fooze, the new Knee? What's all this?" A scampish little smile began spreading across Carlos' face. He lowered the hand he had raised to shield his eyes from the sorry spectacle, and looked at the television set.

Mike Fooze was a minor gadfly who had been a major pain in his ass during his high school years, as Fooze was solidly fixated in the circle of people that a younger, naiver Carlos used to hang out with. Although he could never stand having the conceited and obnoxious racist idiot around him, he had been obliged to tolerate his insulting presence on too many occasions, thanks to certain "close friends" whom he didn't associate with anymore. And having to spend time with the boorish loud-mouth, whose company he never would have sought out himself, had rankled him to the bone.

For some mysterious reason Fooze had developed a very high opinion of himself, and his self-adulation was shared by some of Carlos' ex-friends. Carlos could never figure out why; the guy was an embarrassingly bad kneeboarder-sissy with the voice of a spoiled little milksop, who constantly spewed out mean, negative remarks through an obnoxious motor-mouth that never stopped running. He was one of those annoying types that insisted on being "master of ceremonies" whenever he was around a group of people, dominating the conversation even though he never had anything very interesting to say; Fooze was the epitome of the stupid, boring dullard. His main claim to fame seemed to be an ability to "pop wheelies" on a miniature toy motorcycle his dad had bought for him on his thirteenth birthday; as far as Carlos knew, he didn't have much else to back up his big reputation. Carlos had had to restrain himself many times from kicking Fooze's lame pathetic ass, after Fooze baited him by making disparaging remarks about Mayinkans in front of his "friends," none of whom had ever remonstrated with him for his remarks. Carlos had held his anger and disgust in check out of deference to those "friends" for a long time, but he had had to do it one too many times; consequently he had stopped associating with those "friends," and had found himself much better off for it.

"Well, I'll be dipped in dogshit! It is old Foozer Loser! Now what's all this about choosing a new Knee?" His curiosity now fully aroused, Carlos moved closer to the screen to view Matt Boneschwanker, whom he had only actually seen once or twice; he had never really gotten a close look at the little guy. He wasn't very impressed with what he saw  -- people had told him that Boneschwanker acted and looked like a typical jerk, and now that Carlos was finally getting a good solid look at him, he realized that they hadn't been kidding.

Several of his more palatable friends had warned him that this Boneschwanker cur seemed to be intent on destroying Carlos' reputation... which was not surprising, as he was an upper-middle-class Usher who didn't have much else going for him. Carlos had never really paid much attention to these warnings; to him, Boneschwanker was just another Usher worm out to get him, relieving his self-hatred the best way he knew how. But over the years it had come to his attention that this particular Usher, who very befittingly had been studying to become a stockbroker before deciding to try his hand at the fine art of rage-rock, had been especially assiduous in his efforts. And Carlos had gradually come to realize why.

The little squirrel had lustfully coveted a girl who had been infatuated with Carlos, a pretty Longfellow girl whom he had given a wide berth -- the girl was always with a group of Ushers who, typically, were as mean as hornets, and who loved to loudly exchange their latest "Carlos" jokes whenever he came within earshot. But Boneschwanker just could not understand how an "ugly Mayinkan fag" could turn down the girl who fueled his wildest sexual fantasies. The fact that this pretty girl had admired Carlos and rejected Boneschwanker, compounded with Carlos' polite disinterest in her, seemed to have driven this jilted Romeo into a state of murderous insanity. It had become clear to Carlos that this girl's humiliating rejection was behind Boneschwanker's blatant, undisguised character-assassination campaign. The little cur was every bit as contemptible as Mike Fooze; a couple of emotionally stunted canines who lived in their hindbrains, only coming out when they had to use their cerebrums for some pressing task.

Now, as fate would have it, these two birds of a feather were being touted as the biggest contenders for John Terraman's vacated "Knee" throne, by a medium that was not just obnoxious but completely insane: the "David Litterbugg Today" show. And the show's host was at this moment doing what he did best: mirthfully stoking the fires of jovial hatred.

"Ok you guys," chortled Litterbugg, "one of you is going to be the next Knee... you're here today to fight it out for the throne, right? Now, you're gonna' tell our viewers just exactly what qualifies you to fill John Terraman's patriotic shoes! Who's going first... Mike?"

"Yeah, Dave, it's me! I'm the obvious choice... Terraman was a brave patriot, but he was kind of a dummy. I'm smart. I would..."

Fooze was interrupted by a loud contemptuous snort, coming from Boneschwanker. "Ha! That's a good one! You're so smart you got a job taking out the trash at your dad's medical office! I'm way smarter than you, I'm a stockbroker! And everybody knows you gotta' be real smart to be a stockbroker! I think this is a job that requires a little more brains than you have, Mike..." Matt turned towards the cameraman, displaying a mean sardonic grin.

"Oh right, all hail to the big stockbroker! This is a job that requires balls, Matt, and admit it, man... you haven't got much in the way of that. I mean, how much balls does it take to sell a bunch of stocks to some dummy with a lot of money..."

Boneschwanker interrupted Fooze once again. "A lot more balls than it takes to ride a wave on your bended knees, jerk! You've never even stood up on a surf..." He didn't even get to finish his sentence.

"Oh ok, I get it!" interjected Fooze. "So now you're the big surf star, eh Matt? That's not what I've heard from some of your surf buds..."

The t.v. switched to a close-up of David Litterbugg's smirking face. "Boys, boys, please! Remember, you're live on the air!" Litterbugg leaned forward in his chair. "Ok now, let's get down to business. You guys are both Ushers, and John Terraman was a Longfellow. You know what people are going to ask, the big question... can a Usher fill Terraman's shoes? Is the Usher man enough? What's your response to that... Mike?"

"Uh, well actually, David... I'm not really a Usher, you know. I mean, I gotta' tiny little bit of Usher blood maybe, but I'm mostly..."

"Oh my god, what?" Boneschwanker exploded. "I can't believe I'm hearing this! You're as much a Usher as me or Dave over there! What the hell are you trying to say, Fooze? You think you're better than us or something? Ha, that's rich! Gimme' a break, you fucking..."

A loud beep obliterated the expletive; then all hell broke loose. The cameraman switched momentarily to a close-up of Litterbugg's smirking face, then panned back to the two wannabee-Knees as they verbally went for each other's throats.

"Not really a Usher? You've got more Usher blood in you than Steven Schidtberger himself, you [beep!] retarded little scum-sucking piece of [beep!] [beep!]..."

"Oh yeah? At least I come from a family with straight hair, you miserable little [beep!] jerk piece of [beep!]! You look like a french poodle or something, you [beep!] [beep!], I guess you think you're just..."

"[beep!] you, you godda-[beep!] moronic dirty little [beep!]-wipe swine [beep!], you're about as manly as my [beep!] mother, you [beep!] little..."

"You're mother's ugly, Matt! And you're ugly, Matt! You're the ugliest [beep!] little squirrel I know, you [beep!] [beep!] son of a [beep!]!!"

By this time Carlos and Slasher were both doubled over in a fit of hysterics, unable to even look at the t.v. any longer. Just in time the absurd scenario cut to a blank screen, with a pre-recorded voice-over announcing a break for station identification. A full-tilt rage-rock song immediately ensued; the rude screaming of an enraged vocalist, backed by a bad guitarist playing ridiculous, repetitive hammer-on riffs pervaded the room.

"Oh my fucking gaaawwd! Are those two imbeciles hilarious, or what!" Still laughing hard, Slasher pointed the remote at the t.v. and was about to click it off, when Carlos suddenly reached out and grabbed his hand.

"Wait a minute... wait a sec, just wait..." David turned to look at his partner. A strange expression had come over Carlos' face.

"Listen to that..." he said, in a serious tone of voice. "Just listen to that for a minute." Slasher held the remote limply in his hand and obliged Carlos, going quiet. They both stood in front of the t.v. and took in the music for a few seconds, before it suddenly faded abruptly and an anti-perspirant commercial took over. The two musicians silently looked each other in the eye for a moment.

"Have you ever thought about what kind of mind accepts music like that, Dave? Have you ever really sat down and thought about it?" Carlos asked incredulously.

Slasher continued to look into Carlos' dark brown eyes for a few seconds, before giving him a reply. "I try not to think about things like that, Carlos," he finally answered, in a hushed tone. "Scares the fucking shit out of me." Raising his hand, he clicked off the television.

Carlos looked down at the carpet for a few more seconds. Then exhaling heavily, he lifted his eyes to meet Slasher's again. He smiled.

"Well, tomorrow's the big night... this is it, Dave!" said Carlos. "Are you ready?"

"I... I don't know! I mean, I guess I am... I think." Slasher rolled his eyes upwards. "Oh man... what a line-up we gotta' open for! Are you ready, Carlos?"

Carlos looked down at the carpet again, pondering the upcoming challenge. For a brief moment, he felt the proverbial butterflies fluttering around in his stomach... then regaining control, he looked back up at Slasher and smiled again.

"Well, you know, it's like you just said, bro... 'scares the fucking shit out of me!'"

David didn't laugh.

**************

David Geeken opened up the medicine cabinet in his large, elegant bathroom and grabbed a little plastic container of tranquilizers. Snapping off the lid with his thumb, he tried to shake out a couple of the small pills, but his hand was shaking so badly that he ended up spilling the entire contents onto the plush shag carpet. Cursing loudly, Geeken dropped to his knees and plucked up a few, then struggled back to his feet. Seizing a large, expensive looking drinking glass from the sink counter, he filled it with water from the tap and threw three tranquilizers into his mouth, then hurriedly raised the glass and swallowed them all at once. It was the third time he had had to go through this panic-stricken routine.

Something was coming at him; something bad. He could feel it advancing on him, slowly but steadily, inexorably... and it was sending an ominous advance warning that had him extremely agitated.

Geeken would never acknowledge that he had brought this nervous condition upon himself, by utilizing the ignominious powers of high-tech surveillance to see things that he had no right to see; he simply lacked the basic self-analytical qualities that distinguished the higher primates from the lower, stupider ones. Unable to restrain an ape-like curiosity in respect to the private affairs of other people, it was Geeken's well-deserved fate to have to suffer these feelings of outrage and foreboding that were part and parcel of his sick tactics. But he had always refused to admit the truth about himself, to himself... after all, he wasn't the brightest of light bulbs.

For a long, long time now, Geeken had enjoyed the pampered, luxurious life of a decadent multi-billionaire. The fact that he had been at the forefront of a Usher movement to constrict life itself, as more decent and intelligent people knew it, never bothered or even occurred to him; Geeken lived in a smug, obtuse little world known as the entertainment industry, a world completely devoid of higher bearing or class, and he absolutely adored it.

But suddenly all of that had changed; something that was not supposed to happen had happened. A lowly, hapless victim of his immense power had, by some unknown black magic, started to turn the tables on him, giving him a big taste of his own medicine. And he knew it was only going to get worse. Unless...

Dark, evil thoughts of murder and mayhem began to swim around in Geeken's mind again, as he started grasping desperately at ways to abort the release of that song, that goddamned song that was obsessing him to madness. But he couldn't... it was already finished and on it's way to release, thanks to the profit-seeking actions of one Nicky Jagwire and his new record company... the company that had signed The Cool Banditos... Carlos Fontana's band.

Geeken felt his pulse starting to race again, and he began to feel very afraid. It would be a minute or two before the pills he had swallowed would start to calm his nerves, and in the interim he felt he might have a panic attack. He stood quietly by the marble counter for a while, holding onto it with his hand, and waited.

After a minute he began to regain his composure. Able to think more clearly now, he immediately began trying once again to devise a way to foil the release of that goddamned song, the song Carlos Fontana had written about the principals of conspiratorial Ushers in general, and about him in particular; the song he feared would rocket straight up to number one in the charts. The song that would ruin his carefully-invented reputation for life.

A free worm in Paris... just thinking those five little words drove Geeken half-insane with rage. He started to boil over again, then suddenly remembered he had just taken three tranquilizers, and couldn't take another any time soon. He forced himself to calm down.

Geeken had tried everything he could to stop it. First he had sent word via emissaries to Fontana's record company owner, the superstar-turned-magnate Nicky Jagwire, that he might not want to continue on with this new project. But inexplicably, Jagwire had ignored this veiled threat from his "superior."

Puzzled, Geeken had sent another not-so-veiled warning... which was once again ignored. So he had decided to rock the boat and go for higher-up assistance... from Jagwire's indirect controllers, members of the immensely powerful Rothman family branch in Longlandia, who were supposed to be on Geeken's side. He had sent word via liaison that Jagwire was not obeying a direct order from a Usher who was above him in the entertainment industry, which was an offshoot of the Realist political/economic power structure. After all, Geeken was trying to protect them, as well as himself; he had assumed that help would be immediately forthcoming. To his chagrin, word came back that he was not to interfere with Jagwire in any way; it seemed that Nicky was held in some kind of special favor with his benefactors, and was not subject to Geeken's manipulation. The simple-minded Geeken could not fathom anything other than his own personal concept of power, and just didn't understand why the Rothman's would not fly to his aid. It never entered his mind that his ultra-declasse actions and petite-bourgeois mentality might have disgusted even his own "people," or that they wouldn't take extreme action at the drop of a hat... especially on behalf of a jackass boor like David Geeken. The Rothmans had faced bigger threats than a hit rock and roll song, and were not given to hasty, knee-jerk reactions the way Geeken was.

And so... it was up to him to find a way to go around the higher-ups who had tied his hands. He had racked his brains for days now, looking for a solution to this ever-growing problem; but Geeken was used to paying off some easily-bribed celebrity, movie producer or record company executive to get what he wanted; he had never actually had to think much to do that. Now he was going to have to start doing some thinking... and fast.

Exiting his bathroom, he walked towards the curving stairway that led to his second-floor home office; he was heading towards his book of contacts again. This tome contained the telephone numbers and other information for hundreds of people he knew, who operated in many different fields of endeavor; people who were experts at their game. He would peruse this large leather-bound volume for the umpteenth time, all night if necessary, hoping that a name or number would jog his imagination, and maybe suggest a fix for this horrible situation. It was a strategy that had worked for him before.

In his childish view, Carlos Fontana was starting to play Geeken's own game, and was using Geeken's own methods against him. And in his twisted mind, Fontana had no right to use these methods -- they were the sacred province of the Ushers, who were his superiors and masters. He couldn't discern the difference between Fontana's manner, which was simply to state the clear and easily-observable truth, and his own tactics, which included distorting the truth, lying, cheating, threatening, manipulating and maybe even murdering his enemies.

And Geeken was loathe to abandon time-honored methods that always worked. He would find a way to get around the higher-ups' restrictions.

Carlos Fontana had to learn.

***************

_______________________________________
Copyright 2020 by Charles Adrian Trevino.