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Disclaimer: Only like, 86% of this is true. |
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“We scrape our psychoses into thin white lines like the speed arrows on Hell’s highway, and we snort with vehemence and INDULGENCE, watching our freakish, distorted features howl with enflamed laughter in our reflections, on the shattered mirrors of shining, seething sedition.” – Ken McIntyre “Remember, we are not like the others.” – J.D. Misfortune It was shortly after the girl I loved disappeared that I started getting the phone calls. They’d come – and still do come – at various times during the day, like at two in the morning or maybe just after dinner, like some bad joke. Whoever calls never says anything, and for a number of seconds that stretch out like stale gum, we sit in silence until I hear a click at the other end of the line. It’s false hope, really, because except for these phone calls, I have no reason to believe she is alive. She was attacked one night by a schizophrenic with a knitting needle and stabbed in the back. The needle deflated her lung and she was taken to the hospital and kept in a tent so she could breathe. Then one night she called me from the tent on her cell phone she wasn't supposed to use. I couldn’t quite make out what she said, but it sounded desperate and breathless, so I promised to come get her, only when I arrived she was gone. The tent was there, the tubes and the machines were there, but she was not. I franticly scoured every wing of the hospital, spitting at nurses and doctors like a mother who had just lost her child. I haven’t seen or heard from her since and everything I once knew has gone fuzzy, like I’m waking up from a drunken stupor and trying to remember what happened the night before. I have old voice mail and pictures of her looking too good for me. She used to sing to me; she had a voice like a glass of champagne. I often think about saying something when I get a call, but what? Time’s gone by. I’ve changed – new tattoos, a longer beard, and another knick in the ol’ heart. It might not even be her, but if it is, how do we begin again after such a confused and abrupt ending? None of it makes sense. She’s gone and the phone, like her memory, is taunting me. It’s just like Alice Cooper says: God made love crazy so we wouldn’t feel so alone...he was thinking of us. I was urged from my bed early this morning by a knock at the door. I made my way down the stairs, greasy and stumblebum, and threw the door open. I hadn’t bothered putting pants on and it was cold out. The delivery man handed me a package and quickly ducked away. It was a Fed-ex from New Orleans and read ‘FIRST CLASS INTERNATIONAL’. New Orleans, I thought. What kind of madness is this? Just then the phone rang and I tried to get back up the stairs to answer it but I was too tired, didn’t quite have my legs yet, and didn’t make it in time. Everything means something, doesn’t it? When I was dragged to a hotel by the company I had spent the last five years of my life working for and told I no longer fit into their plans, I was pleased when they gave me a couple of quarters to call a cab so I could get home. I saw the humor in that, and, after all, they didn’t drag me there to tell me that it was now company policy that every free thinker would have to pee in a cup and, occasionally, as sales figures warranted, bend over and take it. They did try to make me talk to someone about how I was feeling, however, and what my options concerning my future were, but I told them to shove it and then shoved off fifty cents richer with a bladder full of contaminated urine. I didn’t need the pity. I didn’t need a back rub or ego stroke. What I needed was some action. Now I had time. Now I had freedom. I had plenty to think about, plenty to do. I felt good. In some twisted way – I was alone and unemployed – things were starting to look up. So I rolled on to the nearest bar, ordered a beer, and tipped the bartender fifty cents. I humped down on the couch and opened the package from New Orleans. That’s when things started to go completely gonzo. It was a missive from some covert who called himself Agent 66. I read the letter: Dearest Subculture Hero, Ramundo from H.Q. asked me to write you – he says you’ll understand. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is as follows: To review The Lost Dimitri Monroe Basement Tape for immediate Sleazegrinder publication! The songs you are reviewing are old demos he recorded with various members of Dark Carnival, Trash Brats, Dimestore Halos, The Saviors, and the (purple-haired) Zeroes. He is looking for a record deal. That is all. - Agent 66 Dimitri Monroe! It suddenly hit me. Last I heard Dimitri had moved down to the bayou after getting out of rehab. Apparently he now works as a sous-chef at a jazz club in the flood-damaged French Quarter. I also heard a rumor that he’s recording a voodoo blues album with his new band, Dead Roses. Of course, no one’s ever been able to confirm any of this. But now the package; there had to be some sort of connection. But who was Agent 66 and how did he know Ramundo? Why these songs, right now, after all these years? And perhaps the most important question of all: Why me? I did the only thing that came to my mind at that moment: I called Boston to talk to Sleazegrinder, the one man who might have some sort of idea as to what the hell was going on. He’d been a running mate of Dimitri’s ever since the two of them broadcast their TV show, Welcome to Weird City, many forgotten years ago. I remember Sleazegrinder once told me that Weird City was, as he put it, "a weekly foray into the gutter of fringe culture, the palace of the big freak-out, where splatter heroes, amateur porn skanks, dangerous conspiracy burn-outs, drug bingeing outlaw bikers, and lower echelon rock stars converged to drink, fight, and prove some vague point about justice, freedom, and rock n’ roll. Or that was the idea, anyway." Now my life had suddenly turned into one of Weird City’s episodes, a compelling mix of paranoia, liberation, and high wire action. Sleazegrinder finally picked up after many rings. It was still early and I apologized for waking him. “Something’s going down, man,” I spat. “It’s Dimitri, isn’t it?” he said. My shaky voice must’ve given me away. “How’d you know? Did Ramundo...” “Never mind that.” He cut me off. “Listen, settle down and grab a beer or something. Shit, take something harder if you need to, but just calm the fuck down. Forget about Ramundo. He's clean.” "Well do you know an Agent 66?" I asked. "Forget him too," he said, calmer now. "Where's this coming from?" I felt he already knew the answer to his question but I told him about the package anyway and read him the letter. He was quiet for a minute. "Well," I said, "what do you make of it? What's Dimitri up to?" "I can tell you that he's dangerous and crazy and the only real friend I have in the world. And although I have no real idea where he is, I can tell you that he's not in New Orleans. Unless he's gone there to die. Which is possible." "To die?" I felt my body go numb. "But that doesn't make sense. This tape..." "You have it there?" "Yeah." "Then I suggest you listen to it," he said. "I think it will all make sense once you do. I have to go now." Sleazegrinder hung up the phone. I sat there for a minute then made my way to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka. I took two solid swigs. I wiped my chin and took another swig. At this rate I was going to be drunk by noon but somehow I felt comfortable with that possibility considering how fucked up my morning had been so far. Then I grabbed a package of bacon from the refrigerator and tossed it into a frying pan. Strange voodoo. I thought immediately of the girl. What the fuck happened to her? Well, whatever it was, I had a lot of time to think about it. I left the bacon frying in the pan and returned to the couch with the bottle of vodka. I picked up the tape. A tape. Regardless of who was behind this, there was no doubt I was dealing with a purist, and that comforted me a little. I walked over to the stereo, opened the tape deck, inserted the tape, closed the deck, and pressed play. To be continued... |
Phone Calls from the Dead? . . . A Schizophrenic Strikes .
. . Summoned from the Swamp . . . Fifty Cents Beats a Drug Test . . . The
Lost Dimitri Monroe Basement Tape . . . Looking for Answers in Boston . .
. Vodka and Bacon for Breakfast . . .