What a Pair!

Sir Robert meets Charles Placard!

By Mike Stevens

Charles Placard Meets Sir Robert Timkins

 

     Sir Robert Timkins gazed out upon the many various freaks who made up their audience.  There was the usual collection of vampire-people, brain-dead zombies, and assorted other losers.  And then, there was a guy who looked like he'd come straight from the normal convention.  Dressed in a nice 3-piece business suit, with a close-cropped mop of brown hair that didn't look like he was using it to hide from the world behind, he most definitely stood out like classy lady at a cheap hooker's convention.  What the hell was he doing at a Sledgehammer Nightmare concert?  Suddenly, he wasn't wondering that anymore;  Drummer Knuckles Magginty cursed loudly, and the drums came to an screeching and sudden halt.  He had been drumming so hard, that his bass pedal had burst though the bass drum.  He threw his drumsticks in pure rage, where one hit a huge guy in the leg. 

 

     "Why, you b*****d!" the huge guy yelled, and suddenly, the race was on.  A very pissed mountain of a man chasing a smallish, very frightened-looking drummer through the door out into and across the parking lot, where the cowardly drummer took refuge on the Sledgehammer Nightmare tour bus, recently rented by Sir Robert. 

 

 

     Charles Placard thought to himself, what am I doing here?   He'd just stopped by this place, a run-down tavern on his way home from meeting with his publisher, Hal Rodgers, to hand over his latest manuscript in The Skeleton Army series, a series he absolutely loathed writing, but which, until he wrote the next great American piece of literary genius (he'd prefer it to be dramatic, but he wasn't particular), it would have to do.  He'd had a craving for a cold beer on this blazingly-hot summer evening, and spotted the twinkling advertising sign for this place.  It was advertising Sledgehammer Nightmare was appearing in their lounge; he had been curious, so he'd grabbed his beer and wondered into the lounge.  What he'd heard was a wall of the heaviest, bone crushing noise this side of Hell; he hesitated to call it music, but noisy for sure; what he'd seen was a crudely-painted pentagram backdrop behind 5 losers dressed like they were Satan's long-lost relatives; and when the dude singing opened his mouth to sing, what did Charles hear?  Opera!  He decided enough, and took his beer back into the tavern proper.  He'd come in to see what they were all about, and he'd seen that Sledgehammer Nightmare sucked the big one!

 

 

     Sledgehammer Nightmare slogged through their set; not that any of the toothless cowboys were actually listening.  This place was Hicksville.  Since reforming the band, this was the kind of place they were relegated to playing.  These dumps weren't cutting it.  They needed a miracle to give the band a push towards the big time.  What he needed right now was another beer.  As there didn't seem to be any servers here in the lounge, he'd have to go out into the regular tavern to get one.  He was almost broke, and it didn't look like they'd make anything off their playing at this fricking backwater hole, as they'd be paid by how many people they drew in, and Sir Robert glanced at the 4 dudes slumped over at various tables; no, no money out of this place tonight.  He'd have to dip into his last 10 bucks.  S**t-oh-dear!  He'd leave here with less money than he walked through the door with.

 

 

     He stood at the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention, not that it was hard, as this part of the tavern was even more deserted than the music lounge, in fact, the only guy in here was Mr. 3-piece-suit, short-brown-hair, looking-like-a-businessman, and-out-of-place-in-this-dump Guy, who was standing at the bar also.  He glanced at him, and he returned Sir Robert's greeting; then, after they had both been handed their beers by the bartender, Mr. 3-Piece Suit said,

 

     "Hey, how about sharing a table?"

 

     "Sure, why not?" answered Sir Robert, and soon they were seated at a nearby table.  Mr. Three-Piece broke the silence, "My name is Charles Placard, pleased to meet you; I saw you up on stage in there; interesting."

 

     "Hi, I'm Sir Robert Timkins.  Interesting; in what way?" he asked.

 

     "Oh, you know, a death metal band with an operatic singer."

 

     "What did you think?"

 

     "Well, I like opera, but death metal's not really my cup of tea."

 

     "Well, we're trying to branch out; you know, explore the limits of death metal.  Push out the boundaries, as it were, but so far at least, not having much luck.  What is it you do?"

 

     "Oh, I'm an author."

 

     "Really, anything I might know?"

 

     "Well, right now, I'm currently writing a series called "The Skeleton Army, but I hate it; I'm looking for something else to write about, so I can get away from that pathetic series."

 

     "No way, you mean you actually wrote the books that the movie's are based on?  I love  those movies!"

 

     "Well I'm certainly glad you enjoy them."

 

     "Oh, yeah, anything that helps me not dwell on the fact that we're not having much luck breaking through to popularity."

 

     Well, that may have something to do with the fact your guy's music sounds like the audio equivalent of a bag of dog s**t! thought Charles.  "And why do you think you're not having any luck?"

 

     "Well, we just need exposure.  I'm convinced that this unique blending of two very opposite styles of music is a our ticket to the top!"

 

     "I can certainly understand the desire to make it big, as I've been struggling to achieve the same thing; oh sure, The Skeleton Army is a hit, but it's only doing well because people think it's a comedy, not the serious work I intended it to be.  I--say, I just had a great idea; you guys need lots of exposure, and I want something else to write about, so what would you say about letting me write a fictionalized account of your band?"

 

     That's supposed to be taken seriously?  A skeleton army?  I only liked the movies because I figured it was supposed to be funny; only an idiot would think it was serious.  On the other hand, any publicity is good publicity.  "Hey, that sounds great!"

 

     "All right; let me work on it for a few days and I'll see what I can come up with.  Meet me back here at the same time in one week, and we'll see what you think."

 

 

     Charles was sitting, with a blank mind, at his computer.  Every time he thought of something and began typing, he wound up deleting it.  He was due to meet Sir Robert Timkins tomorrow and he was supposed to be done.  Come on, think!  Then, an idea popped into his head.  He started typing once again:

 

     Sir Robert Simkins thought this idea would generate a lot of notoriety for his band, Sledgehammer Nightmare, and looked down at the stage, which resembled a postage stamp from his vantage point; in a plane thousands of feet above.  What his band needed was publicity, and lots of it.  So here he was, petrified of heights, and about to fling himself out the door of a perfectly-good airplane, and freefall until the last minute, pull the rip chord, and land precisely on the stage, where he'd begin singing. 

 

 

     "Ladies and gentleman, look high above the stage; see that tiny dot?  That's a plane; a plane that Sir Robert Simkins, lead singer of the band you've all been waiting to see, Sledgehammer Nightmare, will jump out the door, plummet Earthward, and zoom right to the microphone, land, and start singing; it promises to be amazing!"

 

     For better or worst, mostly worst, Sir Robert was ready, he supposed.  Reluctantly, he forced himself to walk to the door, and before he could change his mind, jumped.  Panic immediately filled his mind, and he frantically groped for the rip chord.  He needed to feel the reassurance of actually feeling it.  Only, something was wrong, it wasn't there!  What?  It was at this exact moment, he vaguely remembered seeing it sitting on the floor of the aircraft.  With a bowel-loosening, terrifying realization, he realized the truth; he couldn't find the rip chord because in his fear-filled haze, he had forgotten to put the damn parachute on. 

 

 

     The awaiting crowd watched in disbelief as Sir Robert plummeted into the woods, where his path to the ground was marked by the sound of breaking branches as he disappeared into the foliage of a stand of trees, then a loud 'thump', and all was quiet.  The first thought of many was that the show would likely be cancelled.  The second thought of many was,

  

     Man, where's the can; all those beers are seeking revenge!

 

    

     Charles stopped writing at that point.  That would have to be good enough.  Sir Robert would just have to understand; you cant hurry genius!

 

 

     "What is this s**t?" asked a mystified Sir Robert, upon reading through what little Charles had managed to get done.  "I mean, killing off my character at the very beginning?"

 

     Well," replied a very-defensive Charles Placard, "it needs to be revised maybe."

 

     "You think?"

 

     "Maybe I could make Sir Robert land on something soft and survive."

 

     "Oh yeah, plummeting several thousand feet without a parachute, and I survive?  Give me a break!"

 

     "Well, if you don't like that scenario, I've got plenty of others; I just need time to type them up." Never mind that it took me a week to think up this one!

     And so, Charles found himself back in the same predicament he'd been in before; trying to think up an exciting, yet credible, story for Sir Robert.  Let's see, he thought:

     Sledgehammer Nightmare was waiting nervously to go on "The Ronny Cranston Show Tonight, Starring Ronny Cranston ,"the show to end all shows when it came to exposing yourself...

No, he needed to rephrase that:

     ...the show to end all shows when it came to becoming a household name, or a big flying failure; a joke.  Careers where made or lost based on an appearance on Ronny Cranston's show.  Just then, during the commercial break right before Hammer-Time, Ronny Cranston himself came over to where the band waited on a stage, behind a curtain, and said,

    "Relax boys, Monday night's our lowest-rated night, only a few million people will see this; ah, ha, ha!" and he kept waking back to the set.

     After what seemed like a lifetime, but was in reality about 30 seconds, they heard Cranston say, "Welcome back; my next guests did not arrive directly from Hell; it only seems like it; would you give a great big Ronny Cranston Show, starring me, Ronny Cranston, welcome to Sledgehammer Nightmare!"

     The curtain went up, and suddenly, Sir Robert and the boys found themselves face to face with not only the studio audience, but the millions of television viewers at home.  The enormity of their situation hit full force.  Here they were, about to play in front of several million viewers, competing for attention with booze, the remote, and sex.  Sir Robert thought of how they'd have to play better than they'd ever managed before. 

     "Are you ready boys?" he yelled into the microphone.  Upon the nods to the affirmative, he screamed, "Then let's kick a*s!" and they launched into the blitzkrieg onslaught of 'The Bombardment; Metal Battalions,' which was the song (songs) they'd decided on.  Sir Robert figured that by linking them together, these 2 song would get them over fifteen minutes of stage time, and by extension, audience time.  They were supposed to limit their song time to three and 1/2 minutes, but there was no way. 

     The song ended, and there was no noise, no clapping, from the stunned-looking audience.  They were supposed to go over and talk to Ronny Cranston, but as he'd frantically waved at them, before he'd gestured like 'I give up!' and then openly flipping them off, Sir Robert didn't figure that was going to happen.  They were escorted to the door by security, told they could return for their equipment tomorrow, and found themselves out in the cold rain and bleak darkness, staring around silently, and wondering how they were going to get home.

     The next morning dawned just as cold and miserable as the previous evening.  Sir Robert was lamenting how badly the previous evening had gone, and wondering how to proceed, for now there was no way anyone would want them to play.  They were now considered a joke.  His misery was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.  Now what? thought Sir Robert.  Angrily, he swept up the receiver and snarled,

     "What?"

     There was an unsure pause, and a timid voice said, "Did I catch you at a bad time?"  The voice belonged to Homer St. Clare, the man Sir Robert had picked to serve as the band's manager, so he could concentrate on the music, which after the debacle on The Ronny Cranston Show, Starring Ronny Cranston, it wouldn't matter how much he concentrated, it wouldn't ever change from a lump of s**t into fine gold. 

     "No Homer, I'm just bummed out after last night's melt down on national television."

     "What are you talking about?  I've been besieged with phone calls; asking if you guys have a record out, and if you're free for hire; you guys are HOT!"

     "You're kidding; you're just messing with my head!"

     "No, I'm perfectly serious; and, Ball-Peen Records called, and they're interested in signing you guys; that's why I called; we've got a meeting on Wednesday, you and I, with the president of Ball-Peen."

     Crackling and static was Sir Robert's reply. "Sir Robert?  Are you there?"

     "Ah, yeah, I'm just so blown away; can I call you back, Homer?"

     

     The phone was ringing.  It had taken some doing, but Sir Robert now had Ronny Cranston's private, unlisted home phone number.  He'd had to call in a few favors, but eventually he'd managed to cajole the right person, and now it was ringing. 

     "Ah, yes, hello?"

     "Is this Ronny Cranston speaking?"

     "Yes it is; can I ask who's calling and to what this pertains?"

     "Yeah, this is pertaining to your being a complete leaking bag of s**t, you miserable foreskin!"

     "Excuse me?  How did you get this number?"

     Sir Robert slammed the receiver down; GOD, did that ever feel good! 

                                                The End

     "Now, that's more like it!" said an enthusiastic Sir Robert.  Charles was visibly relieved.  He had poured everything he had into the book, and he would have hated to have it rejected out of hand.

     "Great, I'm glad you liked it; I'll make a few phone calls, do a little rewriting and editing, but I can't imagine with a book this good, any publishing company not being interested.  We should have our pick of companies; all we'll have to do is go with the most lucrative offer.

     Sir Robert was almost giddy with excitement.  This Charles Placard really seemed to know what he was doing. 

 

The End

 

    

 

         

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

         

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[A. H. Pinley]

Michael, fun story. As for the end or the payoff. Don't need in. Look at my piece "Where the Magic Happens". I wanted to end the much earlier than what I did, but out of pressure of readers I extended the ending thus in my mind killing the story. As a writer the story is already laid out in your head. The whole story board is visible to you now you just need to put it to words.

[Michael Stevens]

Oh, I've already added a new ending, as I agreed with Marie that the old one was too abrupt. Her comment was about my first ending. I'm much happier with the way it ends now

[Marie]

This was interesting enough to keep y attention all the way through. But something this long needs to have a better payoff.
I kind of like the idea of this worn out band and the opera. And there were good elements to the whole story...they just didn't quite come together.

[Michael Stevens]

You know, you're not the first person to complain about the abrupt ending. I'll take a look at it and maybe try to change it. Thanks for reading!