2021-04-18 - Rock Me Baby

Some dreams are nonsensical -- you're flying on a candyfloss cloud over Neverland when suddenly, the lack of lemons portend that the rainbow ship is beached, and this makes perfect sense scribbled on a note on the nightstand at 3 am (but not so much at 7 when you re-read it, maybe).

Some dreams are clearly stress related -- you find yourself giving a lecture wearing nothing while 200 people stare at you. (Granted, some people enjoy that kind of dream). Or you run after a train when your suitcase flies open, scattering more clothes than could ever fit into it in the first place, and your train is leaving now.

Some dreams are garbled -- you listen in on a conversation that you just know is important, but you can't make out the words. Or you read a book that you really need to read, but the letters are jumbled and nothing makes sense.

Lucid dreamers say that you can teach yourself lucid dreaming that way -- by reading things in dreams. If you can teach yourself to do that, you can control anything in the narrative.

This one? It's a bit like listening to somebody else talking to themselves.

Nothing ever happens in this dump. Like, why does Seattle get all the good music? What if...

What if Gray Harbor had a band that was like, up and coming. Something that started in a garage and somehow they got real famous until the day the lead singer blows his head off in a depression, or something. There's gotta be a parallel universe out there like that.

And just like that something changes.

It's a strange feeling. One moment four people were ... whatever they were doing. And now they're here, in the waiting room of Mr Ricci, talent scout. Memories overlap; in one reality they are fairly damned certain that the four of them are possibly somewhat acquainted, sure, but they are not a thing. In another? They are definitely the Red Herrings, the hottest new act to rise out of Gray Harbor obscurity. All they need to do is sell their act.

And maybe stay off the black leather couch in the corner. Why Mr Ricci would even have that is anyone's question. Maybe it's his idea of a joke.

Sitting at the little desk in the waiting room is a platinum blonde, the kind who obviously purchased her hair colour in a bottle. She's wearing a tight fit suit jacket in pastel pink with oversized shoulder pads -- and if that doesn't date the scene, the square plastic ear clips loudly scream 1985.

The fact that she's doing her writing on an old fashioned typewriter is naother hint. Her fingernails are long and painted a garish shade of pink, too.

"Mr Ricci will see you soon," she says pleasantly and adjusts her blue mascara in a little hand held make-up mirror. "Have you got your instruments and thingamabobs? Mr Ricci is very interested in your little act but maybe you should not play the one about the electric rabbit. It may be a little too crude."

The calendar pinned to the wall behind her says Saturday 20, July, 1985, accompanied with a Garfield cartoon about Mondays.

The stickers on the instrument cases depict a goofy red fish.

Maybe Dorothy is not in Kansas anymore, Toto, but she still remembers, somewhere beneath all of this, that her name isn't Dorothy. Gray Harbor must be doing its thing again.

Itzhak is...the...lead singer. The famously flamboyant front man. Obviously. No, wait. He's the violinist. Also obviously. Right?

Wait. Just what the hell is he?

Well, whatever he is, he's wearing extremely tight black leather pants, a mesh shirt in neon pink, and sparkly eyeshadow. And his hair is long. Again. Except this time it's really long, a huge mop of coiling black curls spilling over his shoulders and down his back.

He just knows, somehow, that the instrument in the sticker-festooned hard case at his side is an electric violin. It's already pissing him off. Along with being helpfully hinted at what to play.

"Listen, sweetheart, ya opinion's appreciated but we make the call. Aight?" He smirks at the secretary with a curl of a sneer to his lip.

1985! Maybe not as cool as 1982 but pretty damn cool nonetheless. Park is wandering around the room, excited rather than nervous, clad in a black leather/vinyl turtleneck style jacket, with brightly colored patches in angular designs. It goes with her black leather pants in the same colors that must have been spray painted onto her spindly legs (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e1/e9/f1/e1e9f173be420c854260ed3e98e384c3.jpg). Big hair of course, with her airspray usage helping to destroy the Ozone layer. She also wears streaks of white make-up across her cheeks as if she was an American Indian via Adam Ant. Her keytar hanging down in front of her from the shoulder straps. Park must play keyboards - very important in 1985.

She stops at the couch, peering at it a moment before turning to the receptionist. "There are some stains on your couch. You should get someone to clean them." A closer look. "White and crusty." A beat. "No idea what it is. Oh! Can I borrow some eyeshadow?" One should always have heavy blue eyeshadow on to remain cool.

Launching himself from the sofa the moment it's been announced it's come with pre-installed stains, Everett whirls around just to make sure that he wasn't sitting in anything. A side-ways frown is given to Park while she's busy asking about eyeshadow. Maybe it's just another one of her jokes.

Moving his sticks to his right hand, Everett tucks them into the black leather bracer covering his wrist, all the way through and into the back of his fingerless gloves. Since he's standing now, he walks to the window and for a moment, looks outside to the view Mr. Ricci's guests are privy to. Then he spies his reflection.

His face concealed behind black make-up, silver on top with a beastial motif, a savage painted open maw, and feline features. His long hair supported with a chemical plant's supply of hair spray to force it into a black mane to suit his black leather, form-fitting costume.

"The fuck?!"
The outburst spoke with his usual bassy tone. Out come his sticks from his wrist band and with the assistance of the window's poor reflection, Everett starts adjusting his 'mane'.

Rekani was lounging lazily somewhere, dressed to the minds in a stylish athletic jacket thats green synthetic material seemed almost reflective. He had on enormous black sunglasses, probably to hide the typical drugged out, bloodshot eyes. Seemingly draped on the chair he was occupying a ridiculous looking white double-neck complete with little blue running lights was held across his stomach, his hands occasionally moving between chord fingerings, and strumming notes that obviously didn't sound as good without the thing plugged in. He didn't seem to care, though. The music was all in your mind, man.

In this era, the heavy scent of weed hung about him, as vaping wasn't so much a thing, this requiring burning of actual, less potent kush, and therefore needing much more to keep the lead guitarist slash bassist happy. Occasionally, his hand dips into the pocket of a clean white fanny pack (trendy then, too!), appearing again with a fistful of potato chips he crunches noisily.

"Language," the secretary intones with a glance at Everett under long, plastic blue eyelashes. The giant might intimidate some, face paint and black leather, but not her. Presumably, Gene Simmons impersonators are not a rare sight in a talent scout's office -- particularly not given the astounding success of Kiss' latest album, Animalize. So much for going unmasked ruining that career. She looks at the motley crew (insert umlauts at your discretion) and sighs. So many hopefuls, so few of them actually have what it takes.

On with it.

It's such a strange little voice at the back of one's mind -- almost like somebody watching a TV show and occasionally commenting on it. Or maybe a more precise parable would be, somebody playing a game of The Sims with free will turned on -- and sometimes going nope, you're not going to be talking to your apple tree right now, click click, go over here and Deep Conversation your wife, click.

It's a mind presence that reminds at least Itzhak of another time the New Yorker found some disturbing changes in himself -- or rather, herself.

On with it, indeed; the door to the office proper opens, and a small man steps out. Wearing a fashionable white suit over a black shirt and slim neon pink tie, he resembles nothing so much as Danny DeVito aged forty. He claps his meaty little hands together and chews on his cigar -- because this is an era in which smoking indoors did not yet get you frowned at, and besides, it's his damn office -- and looks the four people over. "Well, well! What a colourful lot you are. The Pinkfish, was it? Heard your demo tape. Loved it. Star quality -- just got to make a couple of changes, make you stand out a bit. Love the Kim Wilde look," he adds to Park while giving her the elevator eyes. It is a nice, skin tight costume.

"So!" The cigar gets another chew. "I have a private client who's looking for something extra. His daughter's wedding, he wants to impress the family of the bride. They're in entertainment -- Hollywood, something, probably Jewish, who cares, they have money. Tell me about your set and your act -- you there, Kim, can you swing that booty on a stage, make the boys' tongues hit the floor, something for the hussars, hmm? This guy pays well, and all he wants is a genuine garage band experience, something new, something exciting, something that'll be on the charts next year so he can go 'Oh, I had them play at Angie's wedding before they were a thing' at his yacht club buddies. Can you deliver?"

So, this guy wants to hire them for a...kid's birthday party? Sure, everyone in the world should love their music but a birthday party is hardly Madison Square Gardens. Park needs a moment to take that in, before realising there are questions specifically for her. "Umm...my booty?" A look of confusion before glancing down behind her. "Oh...that." He does see that she isn't exactly endowed with booty. "I dance" she offers, "And that usually means I shake my 'booty'." A beat. "And Kim Wilde stole the look from me. Oh, and my name is Park. Or Mee. But on stage I am 'Warrior Fairy'. Magical and strong for all our fans." She smiles at this 'brilliant' stage name. "We can deliver anywhere...even a birthday party." A worried look for her bandmates. How are they taking this?

Pausing with using his drumsticks to fluff up his hair, Everett turns to look at the receptionist when she speaks out against his vulgarity with an expression of disbelief. His visage morphs, quickly, to a playful smirk as he turns from the reflection in the window and stuffs the drumsticks back where he always does: tucked into his bracer and fingerless gloves while he prowls closer. When he gets to his desk, Everett leans at the waist over her desk, dropping his fists against her desk hard enough to disturb her knick-knacks as he leans in, close, to help her with her conjugation.

"I FUCK. You FUCK." Everett pauses, leering down at the secretaries cleavage as he continues the next word and drags his gaze up. Not exactly elevator eyes, but she's sitting. "WE FUH--" he starts to say before the door opens and Everett's eyes snap over. And then down. To locate the speaker. By the time the little man's used the wrong name for their little band, Everett's returned his green eyes to the Receptionist, watching her intently, as though she were the only prey in the room.

At least until Park starts talking. Then Everett stands erect and turns to address his focus to Mister Ricci while he leans his weight on the desk, claiming as much space of the receptionist's territory as his own. "Ppfft. You don't want her to shake it. You'll just be horny an hour later." The silver feline face paint distorts while Everett smirks with humour, perhaps getting Park back for the earlier sofa comment that got him off of it so violently.

Honestly, there's a lot to absorb about the interaction, all the condescension, sexism, racism, harassment, and massive, massive ego. And then there was that strange push, like Nova always did... Luckily the only thing that Rekani seemed to absorb was calories, so most of it washes right over him like her were passed out high on a beach letting the waves go right past him. Wait, that never happened... Or did it? Rekani ambles lazily into the man's office and finds another chair to make suffer his bulk as he flops down into it, the creak of wood clear even if the cushioning flexed under his weight. He seemed to be tuning his guitar, simply from the trip, even if no one else could hear what he was playing.

"Yo, dawg, we already a thing, jus' people dunno 'bout it yet." He drawls almost sleepily. When it came to Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, Rekani was always at least fulfilling two of three.

The sexism, the racism, and the massive ego; welcome to rock'n roll. Or maybe it's welcome to rock'n roll as that presence at the back of the mind thinks rock'n roll is. Maybe there's no real difference.

Or maybe this is some adolescent's idea of the eighties' rock'n roll scene. Mr Ricci's office is nothing if not extravagant -- all steel and plastic in shades of white, with the occasional, inexplicable square of bright pink or eye glaring turquoise. A fraggle figurine sits on the oversized desk like some kind of mascot, because why not. A glass bowl offers up mints and pastils at first glance -- but look twice and they are obviously pharmaceutical in nature. Posters on the walls depict bands that no one's ever heard of -- but when you ignore the names, they are very obviously hybrids of staples such as Twisted Sister, Mötley Crue and other household hair metal brand names. The place of honour goes to a poster that is obviously a rip-off of Tina Turner's Private Dancer cover except that the woman on it is Asian and it's titled Exclusive Performance.

"Iiiiif you'll just sign here, and here, and here..." Mr Ricci has the paperwork ready and the small print is indeed very small. What's worse, it's obviously been put together by somebody who has no idea what actually goes into small print. There's a bit about performing to the best of the band's ability; some lines about being sober while performing; and strangely, several paragraphs about conduct with groupies and minors. Whoever wrote this stuff has never seen an actual work contract in their life, and odds are that Mr Ricci either did not read this, or he hasn't either. The contract does have an entire paragraph devoted to Everett's make-up which must be certified not tested on animals.

Curiously, there is a very brief and very easy to miss in passing note about after-concert private engagements that catches the eye of Everett and Rekani both. But eh, maybe it's not an immediate concern given that the paragraph does specify 'female performers'.

Look, I'm not going to spend all night researching that boring crap, okay. You gotta be able to stand up and you can't, like, run away with a roadie. Just get on with the story.

"Theeere we go," Mr Ricci confirms and passes the pen and contracts around. "Anything else you need, let me know now, boys -- and uh, girl. I take care of my bands, don't you worry about a thing. This rich guy? He'll put Pinksnake right on the billboards -- because of course he will, cat wants to brag that he had you first. Ready for your first gig? Anything you need, anything at all? Let's make you make us rich!"

"Oh my gosh, Big E. That's Chinese, and I'm not Chinese" Park harrumphs at Everett. "People are always horny around me." She throws in a shake of said hips to prove...whatever point she is trying to prove. The Korean-American bounces into the office, looking in awe around the place. "Gosh, just like I imagined. A fraggle!!" That last said in a loud squeak that has her bounding over to check it out. "Sooooo cute. We so should have done the theme song." Taking in all the posters she asks, "Are these all your acts, Mister Ricci?"

A contract to sign! This will make them all famous and...play a birthday party. Small print doesn't bother Park. She expects that it will just be like the small print at the end of the movies. How no animals were hurt in the making of this contract. That kind of thing. So, Park is all set to sign if nobody tells her otherwise.

But before she does...

"Oh, Mr. Ricci, you asked that we bring along all our instruments, so don't you want to hear us play before you sign us up?" She looks around in sudden excitement. "Are there photographers to snap the signing?" They're a big act. This should be on Entertainment Tonight.

Said oblivious guitar/bass playing Latino seemed strangely on point when looking over a contract, maybe because he actually had to look over contracts before, selling jingles or advertising background tracks, side jobs that paid the bills. As he starts to read, there’s a slowly dawning quirk to his brow, a look of confusion that borders on incredulity. He holds up a finger in a motion to wait, the back of his hand lightly bumping Park’s writing arm to keep her back from it, the main cause of concern.

“Yo, this part...” He points to it, the part that applies to after-party engagements, the part that applies only to Park. That sort of thing was just as dangerous to strippers... Why did he know that? He knew that for a reason, definitely... He was staring at Ricci with lowered brows, “Gonna need that more clearly defined or taken out totally. We’re a band. Package deal. No splitting’ us up just cause’a what’s in our draws’.” That was a good enough, totally legit sounding explanation that wasn’t saying obviously, ’No you don’t get to corner our one female member for extracting favors.’ Or maybe it was.

When Mr. Ricci leads the way to his office, Everett flicks a look at Park then the other following members of his band. Grabbing shoulder wide apart hand fulls of the receptionist's desk, his attention returning back to her while he leans down to murmur, "<b><i>BIG</i></b> E," down to her. Then, as if to accent his point, once.
Twice.
Three times.
He thrusts against the piece of furniture hard, unsatisfied with just knocking over her kitsch pen/pencil holder or further nick-nacks, even patty-wacks. "DeLorean ain't the only thing that can go eighty-eight miles an hour, toots." And then he follows after, ceasing his harassment of Mr. Ricci's help. At least for the time being, but then, she started it, Mom.

Noticing others have already started every thug's favorite past-time, reading, Everett looks around for a copy, picks it up and looks to where everyone else is while flipping to that page. From there he meanders the words even as they make his green eyes cross. More than once having to shake his head to force those orbs apart and resume reading. And reading he apparently is, looking up at Rekani's objection.
"Yeah," he agrees emphatically and yet totally missing the point, "either nobody goes, or we all go to the party. Also," his deep voice gets more inquisitive as he looks up, er, down since he isn't in a trusting mood of the furniture at the moment, "what if we buy our make-up especially because it's, uh," he rolls his eyes ceiling-wards searching for the word, "inhumane?" he asks, looking down with his question.

Then, a heartbeat after adds, "Can I get a New Coke? Or a Tab?"

"Van's ready to take you to the estate," Mr Ricci beams and glances out a window where sure enough, there's a large black van parked in the street below -- one without any identifying company logo on the sides. In fact, the perfect van if you wanted to say, drive somebody off and sell them in some fictional overseas slave trade that could only be conjured up in the mind of a Victorian romance writer about to ship the heroine to Arabia -- or a young adult mind with reality warping powers, about to ship ... Hm.

"Camera crew is already out there, getting ready for your show," the little impressario rushes to continue. "Listen, this man? He's got a son whom he adores and he's so rich that if you slip him a hundred he won't be able to decide whether to light his cigar with it or wipe his ass on it. He wants you, he wants The Salmons. Man like that? He gets what he wants. He wants to tell his neighbours two months from now -- that number one billboard band? Yeah, I had them play before they got famous. So he'll make you famous, just so he can say that -- it's the opportunity of a lifetime, and don't you know it!"

Behind him, his secretary takes out a spray bottle of disinfectant and goes to work on her desk while glaring daggers at Everett's back. Maybe she will get it a therapist too. Maybe it will need one.

The expression on Mr Ricci's face when both gents place their objections is priceless.

First, shock.

Then, disbelief.

Then, a look more cunning than a fox that graduated from the university of cunning in Oxford (thank you very much, Captain Blackadder).

"Just sign with somebody else's name," he tells Park, quickly, voice hushed as if he worries somebody else than the secretary might in fact be listening. "Santa Claus, Smurfette, no one gives a shit, just don't put your name there. In fact, none of you put your actual names there. It's not like they're going to read this legalese, and we get paid anyhow."

Thanks goodness for bandmates. Park's signing hand held at bay with Rekani's warning. She peers at the small print as he comments on it. That does look strange. "Oh, definitely, we're totally a group. 'All for one and one for all', like the Mouseketeers." A nod along to Rekani's words. "Our drawers? Why would they want my socks?" she asks her bandmate with evident confusion. Even Everett was standing up for her...in a non direct roundabout way which involved his own make-up.

"But if we sign not using our own names, then we won't be able to have all the good stuff in this contract, would we?" A look to Rekani for clarification since he is the smart one. And why does their band name change every five seconds? It should be SPIRE - Super Park Itzhak Rekani Everett - or something. "Smurfette would be a pretty cool name for me though" Park grins, "Though I'd have to paint myself blue and we'd be up for copyright infringement. Probably. Oh, there are camera crews outside?" She peers down at the van. "In there? Shouldn't we sign down there then?" Again she looks to Rekani for leadership. She's unlikely to look at Everett for that.

“No,” Rekani makes a sigh of exhasperation, something Park had no doubt heard many a time, “Draws, like... underwear.” His hands were held at a V angle, pointing downward to his pants. Rekani, trying to be tactful. Being the smart one, though, was a BIG stretch, here. Swinging his guitar back over his shoulder and finally lifting his sunglasses off his face to set on the top of his head, he reaches to put his hand on Park’s wrist lightly. He was drawing her hand away from the paper. It was a protective gesture. He was wary now, and he wasn’t about to let a member of Tribe Platinum sign her life, or maybe even her name away.

“I think dude meant the cameras were at the ‘venue’.” There was emphasis on the word like he was suspicious of if that was even what was at the other end of a van ride. He may not be the smart one, but occasionally, he was clever. “If it doesn’t matter what’s written down, why don’t you sign it?”

Despite his concerns regarding the humane methods on how their make-up was tested, while Rekani and Park are speaking amongst each other, Everett's already taking pen to paper. Speaking, to himself, while scribbling, "The," his head cants to his right, a bit of pink tongue peaks from between his lips. His hair, his mane doesn't budge at all, "Beeeeast." When he finishes with his signature, he looks at the other members of his band: <i>Crimson Pain </i>.

His gaze then drifts out the window, following Mr. Ricci's, to the large black van outside. His lips purse as he sees it and recalls. Recalls the interior of a large black van. It was dark, without windows and a curtain between the driver and them. Just then, they all lurched forward, save the ones already being made to lay on the floor and when the van came to a stop. From the fully subjective, first-person point of view, it's a big arm, one clad in black leather that reaches for the van side door and pulls it open before it even stops.
The sudden light from outside is searing, causing a squint. But he feels one man hold his shoulder while two of them, similarly dressed in black leather jackets, head outside. Outside where a young woman stands to hold a brown paper bag defensively. They grab her, and with their backs to him, he can see the gruesome grin of a clown on their backs. Her bag is dropped in the scuffle, a cantaloupe escapes and rolls down the sidewalk before veering for the street. She starts to scream, but the to men are stronger than she is and together, they pull her into the van, into the company of another already waiting for her with a rag and a milk carton crate of spent duct tape.
The door, the big arm, closes. Over her screaming, soon muffled, someone yells to "Go, go, go!" and the van's tires squeal. The acceleration pulls everybody back and.

The Beast shakes his head twice and looks back at Park and Rekani's contracts. "What's a matter? Don't wanna be famous?"

"That'll do," Mr Ricci declares quickly and swipes the papers from Everett's hands. "Scarlet Unicorns, you are in business! Don't worry, one signature will do, it's not like Mr King reads these things anyhow."

He pauses. And then winks conspiratorially while chewing his cigar, a feat which makes him look a bit like Joe Pesci chewing a lemon. "Gotta tell youse guys a little secret now. Mr King? He doesn't understand lies or deception. You tell him something, it's absolute truth to him. I'm gonna tell him papers were signed, he ain't gonna ask how many or who done the signing. Those guys? They are experts at writing a contract so that you don't realise you signed your firstborn kid over to 'em, but the idea that someone might just plain lie? They don't get it. Wanna blow their minds? Tell 'em the moon is made of green cheese."

Is that it? Apparently, that is it.

Without much further ado -- but a whole lot of cigar chewing and enthusiastic rambling about giving it your goddamn best, blow those fuckers away, give 'em the show of a lifetime, make it worth bragging about to Mr King's country club -- Mr Ricci half leads, half herds the band of a dozen names related to the colour red out the door and down the stairs. Does he intend to go with them? Apparently so. Maybe he wants to protect his investment.

The drive to Mr King's estate was not far. The band did have a bit of time to talk as they drove. The best thing about the van, though, was that it turned out to have a minibar inside.

There it is again, that odd feeling like somebody else's mind superimposing itself on reality. Fast-forwarding reality a little, at that. Whatever happened to deciding whether they wanted to go?

Apparently, this happened.

Whether Park is a little too distracted (possibly by the minibar, possibly by wondering about that contract and its implications still) to really pay proper attention is anyone's guess. The other two members of the band may be a little more paranoid -- or maybe just a little more bored; glancing out the toned windows of the vehicle they do come to a realisation in fairly short time: Wherever this van is going, it's not through the outskirts of Gray Harbor.

The coniferous forests of the Pacific Northwest have one defining characteristic. It's right there in the name: Coniferous. Sure, there's the occasional maple mingling with polite company but on the whole -- firs, spruces, things with needles, not leaves. Coniferous forests have standards.

This one, the one that the road winds through, does not. Or if it does, these are different standards. A bright and sunny woodland of tall oaks and even taller hornbeams, shafts of sunlight piercing the dense foliage in displays of meadows and forest flowers worthy of a Disney cartoon -- definitely not Gray Harbor, with its misty, often ominous semi-permanent twilight and dark woods.

There's a small flock of deer in one such meadow, watching the van drive past, unperturbed. A couple of robins and cardinals sit on the antlers of the stag, looking for all in the world like they're talking about the weather. All this trip needs, really, is a Disney princess bursting into song.

But hey, maybe that's why Park is here.

"Look how tiny these little bottles are" Park squeals excitedly about the contents of the mini-bar, pulling them out one by one to show her bandmates. Yes, they need to see every one. So, of course, she doesn't notice the world outside. In fact, she doesn't even notice how they got into the van in the first place. But here they are. "Are we there yet?"

"What songs should we sing at the party?" she asks before pointing at the little Beefeater on one of the little bottles. "Isn't he so cute! It's like he's been miniaturised by a miniaturisation ray . Does anyone else think it is ironic that miniaturisation rays are really big? Are we there yet?"

"If we sing 'Happy Birthday', make sure we pay the publishing rights. They can be quite litigious. Are we there yet?"

The whole deal was sort of messing with Rekani. First there was weirdness with the contract, then it was all just a sham. Nothing was making sense, it seemed to move and flow just like some sort of wild late-night-snack fueled dream. Oh right, snacks. He reaches into his ever present pouch and pulls out a full size can of Planter’s Cheez Balls. He looks at it with confusion a moment and reaches in again, coming out with a can of Hi-C Ecto Cooler. His eyes widen in shock and he pops and drinks it. He looks impressed. He pops the can of cheesy carbs as well and starts munching. Park gives him an idea and he adds one of the mini bottles to his drink and swirls it.

“I dunno,” Rekani’s face screws up. They were a band, could he even remember any of the songs they sing? “We’ll figure it out, we always do.” He has a thought, “How bout, The Only Way is Through?” That sounded right to him.

With the contract snatched from his beefy sausage-fingers, Everett looks up to find where it's gone before leaning back to get more comfortable for all of about five seconds. While other's admired the decore, his eyes widen for the bowl of candy and leaning forward dips his fingers in with the action of standing to be escorted to the awaiting kidnap van. Which could only have been made cooler if there was a barbarian woman, on an icy landscape, snuggling with a polar bear. Or some such. The few pills he snatched are played within his hand when they pass reception, and The Beast can't help but add another dig, stage-whispering in her direction, "I'mma wear you like a glove," while they pass. Sexual harassment, what's that?

While in the van, Everett takes a look at the pills he pilfered then clutches all put one in his palm, stands that randomly selected one on it's end between the window's edge and his finger and flicks it inside the cabin of the van. He has a few, so he has something to entertain him while the boring forest outside passes by, accompanied by the Peanut's like blah-ing of Mr. Ricci inside.

Everett leaves a face-paint smear when he sees the flock of deer and presses his face against the window. All the better if he has to clamber over everybody else to get to the right window to watch Bambi going by, offering, "VEAL!" as their identification, claiming his seat again when the deer are no longer visible.
"Those bottles are as small as you are," laughs Everett, "Haw-haw!" He then upnods, a half-beastial face painted man, "Take some as a souvenir." And to Rekani he offers, "What was the one that Bottle Blonde didn't want us to do? Let's do that one. Electric Tunafish On A Pike? Honey Mustard Love? I forget."

Picture an English manor house; the kind which has a very long driveway under ancient elm trees, past seemingly endless lawns upon which are interspersed the occasional bush cut into the shape of a grazing deer or a dancing nymph, with a small trout pond, a few white gazebos and, of course, a hedge labyrinth that you would need a compass and a St Bernard to escape, and which sure as hell isn't anywhere near Gray Harbor. A hundred years' worth of dead Addingtons cry out in envious snobbery.

It doesn't take a genius level intellect to surmise that the little band must have entered the dreamscape. The whole nineteen eighties setup and the fact that they are a band in the first place offers a couple of solid clues. And of course, there's the fact that each of those little bottles in the mini bar tastes like alcopop -- ready mixed soda with some weak alcohol content. Even the whiskeys and the gins taste like -- strawberry with a bit of vodka. You'd probably die from diabetes before you got a proper buzz on from these. It's almost insulting. Mr Ricci does not seem to realise, though. He yammers away about money and fame and Mr King's country club while sucking down what's clearly labelled as a small bottle of Johnny Walker but which smells like peach fizz.

The van comes to a halt on the grand driveway outside those grand manor doors. Mr Ricci is first out, somehow (teleportation may be involved), rushing out to meet a tall, pale man in a butler's swallowtail suit. Rather than the sombre and appearance one might expect from someone wearing one of those to work, though, the man has eyes that burn so bright green they seem almost inhuman, and his hair cascades down his back like a waterfall of molten gold. Fine featured and pointy-eared, he joins Mr Ricci in conversation -- and turns out to speak in a language more reminiscent of birds' whistles and calls than human speech.

Mr Ricci's attempts to speak similarly are pathetic at best. Points for trying.

He herds the little band after the elf-like butler, towards the hedge maze. As it turns out, a garden party is in full swing around another gazebo -- upon which has been prepared the instruments for the band. Upscale? Beyond a doubt. There's no one saying that the Sanguine Rosettes cannot use their own instruments -- but there's definitely been provided in case they want to try to something more -- refined. The fact that all these beautiful electronics appear to be made from pale birchwood with some leaves still attached is -- eerie, or maybe just plain strange.

So's the audience. Not a single one of them do not resemble the butler. Sundresses, heels, tuxedos -- as if taken out of a scene from The Great Gatsby. A decidedly 1920s feel, the sort one might expect from someone with enough money to bloody well rearrange his garden into sixty years previous if he feels like it. Or somebody who hasn't realised that time moves on, and it's 1985 now. A sea of golden-haired, green-eyed, over-pretty elfin party goers drinking pink bubbles that sparkle and glitter, while chirping to one another in joyful birdsong.

Toto is not in Kansas anymore. Toto may not even be on Earth.

Alcopops? Park's favorite! Once she tastes one, she has to taste them all! "Oh my gosh, so yummy!" she squeals before pondering the songs that Everett is suggesting. "You Can Tuna A Piano but You Can't Tunafish? If it's a kid's birthday party, how about we do something sweet like Pink Popsicle Lover." She is quite happy to propel herself to diabetic as they show up at the set of Brideshead Revisited. "Wow, cool pad. When we're rich and famous, I'm totally getting a place like this. Oh, wow, look at the topiaries." A giggle fit suddenly erupts. "That one looks like a vagina." A gentle nudge of Everett. "That one there. Since you probably haven't seen a vagina before."

Off they go to the gazebo stage. "Hey, guys, should we change into our stage gear?" she asks her bandmates - she's just in her casual daywear. Isn't everyone? "Oh my gosh, look at these instruments. So pretty." She wants to press the keys so bad but the crowd are already there and waiting. How will they do their sound check? A big smile on her face, Park waves at the pretty crowd. "Hello, everyone! I was going to tell a time-travelling joke, but you guys didn’t like it." Park holds a hand over her eyes as if blocking out the sun as she scans the audience. "Where's the birthday boy?"

It may be weird. They may be in the Dreamscape. They may be somewhere even worse. But Park is a show-woman and she's hear to make everyone happy through song and bad jokes. Even if they are figments of someone else's imagination.

"I'm always ready for the stage." Rekani breezily dismisses Park's suggestion, true enough with how flamboyant his outfit generally was. He had dropped his sunglasses back into place by this point and had lit another joint, regardless of the prim and proper look of the party. His brows were dropped into a skeptical, or maybe wary line, but it was hard to tell with the big black shades on.

He moves his big double-header around on its strap onto his front and looks for an electric hookup while tossing occasional glances out into the crowd. He wasn't vocals, so he let the frontman... er... woman rile up the crowd while he tries to work out their electronics setup, and he'd likely get Park hooked up as well with whatever he finds.

But seriously, what was up with that language?

Rubbernecking. Lots of rubbernecking. Sometimes even with his mouth not partly opened while he absorbs the estate and heedless of Park's drinking problem. "Fuck me, look it dis place. I bet they have their own village of gardeners," he offers, before suggesting one more, "How about Banana Cream Pie? Or, uh. Baby Shark Chum?" looking to the others briefly for input. When he's elbowed, The Beast looks over at the topiaries. "Oh wow, that's some bush. And she's already trimmed." Then he waves it off, looking back down, down. Down at Park, "But that's not a vagina. My dad said if I ever wanted to see a pussy, all I had to do is look in a mirror."
Deadpan, Everett looks back to the scenery.

At the door, Everett sizes up the butler, pausing to make sure he's still taller, he points at the uniform as they're ushered, "Ha. Monkey in a monkey suit," to his band mates after watching the interaction between the wee Ricci and Lurch.

But to the butler himself, Everett smirks, "Jeeze man, it's just a joke. Why don'tcha kill someone in the conservatory with the lead pipe or something, Doctor Spock." Then he's eyeing the other people they're getting escorted past. It doesn't take much; just one that looks back at him, especially with his half smudged make-up and he's talking back to them in their own language with a sudden, challenging, gleeful thrust at them, "CAW CAW, MOTHERFUCKER!"
See, I speak bird too. Everett continues the escort oh-so pleased with himself.

Before Lurch leaves them, Everett points at one of the sparkly bubble drinks, "I'll have one of those." The ask about changing, Everett looks down at himself, not noticing his smudged make-up, and looks up innocently as he can muster. "What, for these guys? Fuck 'em, we don't need to impress them with anything less than my drumming and," he bends the wrist, rolling it around dismissively at Park with a smile as small as she is, "whatever it is you do." Darn right he gets out of arm's reach, making small adjustments to the drummer's kit to his liking. Sliding sticks from his wristband, he gives them a twirling between his fingers after taking his seat.
And then stands up and picks them up again before getting back to his drummer seat.

Attention. It's what any musician worth his salt wants, and what the Beast lives for. It's not much to ask, is it? A few hundred admirers, watching in awe, holding up their lighters at the slow bits, pumping their fists in the air, and singing along on the catchy parts. As the band prepares their gear on the small stage of the gazebo, they know how this goes: The crowd sidles over, curious, forming a shapeless, constantly changing blob, ever more curious as they get through the sound tests and the show is about to begin. Sure, you can lose them at that point -- if they hate the performance or the music, for example, or something more exciting happens somewhere else (typically, free drinks at the bar). But until then, party goers and clubbers will rubberneck like Everett in a van, nosy and curious to see what kind of gig this is going to be.

This audience might be a tough nut to crack. Almost no one's interested in the sound test or watching the performers get ready. A few of the men -- probably, it's not quite easy to tell with these fine-featured, elfin creatures -- point and laugh with heartfelt amusement at the tall guy going caw caw at them, much like you would at a particularly adorable circus dog.

Maybe the audience's lack of proper pre-show attention can be forgiven, though. Most of them are busy admiring a man (presumably) who approaches the stage, flanked by what's obviously servants (the 18th century livery coats are a clue). Richly dressed in the fashion of a renaissance prince in brocade doublet and hose, he looks nothing as much as a fairytale prince stepped out of some fantasy of medieval times that was never real: His teeth are perfect if a little pointed, his long, golden hair elaborately arranged over his pointed ears, and his face could undoubtedly land him on the front cover of Vogue Hommes any week he wants.

Him, they admire, and chirp to. This is the birthday child -- and as the prince's attention is focused on Park, evaluating and appraising, the audience's attention shifts in the same direction at last.

And then the houselights dim. (This is somewhat of an achievement considering that the entire charade is outdoors). Crimson Candyfloss is about to bring down the house.

Thankfully, Park is far too used to Everett to be bothered by his jibes. And, of course, he will get a hug before he sits down behind his drums, still looming over them. "Your make-up is a bit smudged" she whispers. "Do you want to borrow some mascara?"

Tonight...today...Park will be playing keyboards while sequencing the bass through more keyboards. She doesn't have a Rick Wakeman set-up, but there are few on the go. And the keytar of course...with wood and vine finish. Itzhak is the frontperson of the band. Park's brow furrows as she looks around for him. Did they leave him in the van? Has he been eaten by a hedge? Never mind, the birthday boy is here.

Except he doesn't look very boyish. Park grins shyly and waves to the man. "Hello. Is it your birthday? Love the outfit. I soooo love New Romantic." She looks urgently to the band. "Oh, we should do some New Romantic songs of ours like To Boost a Short Story Long or I've Got Quite Enough, Thanks." It's just a suggestion. Park feels that the perfect songs will pour forth from them without even having to think about it. This is the night that they were made for. One of them at least. There's also the night they play Madison Square Gardens, and the night they play Wembley, and the night they play Budokan. There's lots of nights they were made for, but this is the one that they were made for tonight.

Time to rock and/or roll!

Rekani, sound setup guru as well as guitarist and bassist gets all their stuff mixed up for rockin, and as if answering Park’s question, pushes her lightly at the small of the back until she was in front of one of the stand up mics he’d set up. He knew what he was about, and it was already the right height for her. He moves a few steps over to his own pickup spot, having set himself up one for backup vocals.

Everett gets no mic.

A quick run of the strings after to double-check his tuning, he looks back to the other two, ready. Still utterly confused, but ready. Looks like they were doing this.

Attention. It's what any musician worth his salt wants, and what the Beast lives for. It's not much to ask, is it? A few hundred admirers, watching in awe, hurling their sodden, skimpy tiger print underwear, ramming fistfuls of drugs and digits into his pockets. Singing, sure, but not that kind.

While Rekani leaves Everett, I mean, The Beast, to babysit Park, he makes a face, his arms going down to his sides to protect himself from the hug. Getting a hug from Park? Ew. Or... is that something they do. His brow furrows a tad until the next question draws his attention back over to the pip-squeak with curiosity.
To the offer to freshen his make-up, Everett can't see it, and so he's forced to do the least favorite task: think. Green eyes darting up and to his left for a second before his drum stick is transferred from left hand to join the one in his right before he palms his own face with a loud smack and gives his wrist a half twist.
"Fuck it, no time," he replies, pulling his hand back to put the sticks back where they should go. No longer is his ferocious face paint that of an open mawed lion, but more like a zebra print. Only in negative. With gray streaks. As an aside, he offers Park, "I got laughed at by David Bowie clones, they love us." Then, questioningly, "I think I'm high as fuck."

That's ok, where he's going, he don't need no microphone.

When the band takes their places and Park looks back from chatting with the crowd and there's a knowing look all around, Everett too noticed their lead isn't around. Rehab is a bitch, man. So he takes it upon himself.
Standing up from behind his drum kit, he holds his sticks up and shouts, "<b><i><font size=+1>WE ARE RED NUCLEAR DISEASE AND WE'RE THE BEST BAND YOU'VE EVER, FUCKING, HEARD!</font></i></b>" The sticks are violently struck over his head to the beat of their song before he drops himself down on his chair to play.

The thing about drums, see, isn't the striking one object against another. That Everett can do, and has done for most of his life; usually, his fist against someone else, and they don't make a pleasant sound. For a professional drummer, you had to at least keep a consistent beat. And make sense. And neither of which Everett comes close to doing. Like a flailing octopus, Everett's arms and therefore the sticks strike each and every drum and symbol at seeming random while the man, equally violently, rocks his head to cause his long hair to thrash about, occasional strands sticking to his freshly smeared makeup.
But goddamn, if he isn't giving it his all.
He is a drumming GOD.

The bird people cheer as the amps spill forth loud, loud rock'n roll. The sweaty, grindy kind, with a heavy dose of electronica and pounding bass. The kind of rough, callused kind of beat that probably stunts the growth of the nearby trees for a couple of years ahead, and likely grants permanent tinnitus to any unfortunate wildlife nearby. Lightning flashes from a clear sky overhead, already darkened in spite of the hour, illuminating the stage in a strange kind of fey backlight -- for a moment there, it's retro Ride the Lightning and a drum performance worthy of the Muppet Show.

Somebody can really play. Apparently it's the band. This may come to a bit of a surprise to the band itself.

They never really did agree on what to play, did they? And at least in Everett's case, do they even know how? And beneath that -- since when were they actually a band in the first place?

Vermilion Serpent gave the performance of a lifetime. The rough, seductive voice of the frontman --

-- who's not even there --

-- and the gyrating blonde in front, the firm beat and groundwork laid down by the dee-jay. The crowd went wild. The crowd sang along, loudly -- sounding ever so much like a thousand birds screeching up a storm. This was the night of their lives.

There's that mental presence again. The sensation that somebody is telling a story -- a tale in which the band brings down the house and they will do so if the writer has to fudge every freaking detail to make it happen. It takes a little getting used to, but at least no one in the audience seems to really care that the rythm threatening to blow half the hedge maze away does not actually match whatever it is Everett is very enthusiastically doing over there; the bass that thunders out into the night doesn't quite match what Park is playing; and it doesn't take Rekani long to realise that as far as this whole show is concerned he might as well sit down with a drink because the music plays, and the music doesn't actually need the band. Nowhere is this as evident as the fact that all three band members can hear Itzhak singing though the man is very obviously not there.

Odds are that the band will at least get paid. If one goes by the success rate -- they've earned their pay, or whoever set up the playback has earned them their pay. It may sting one's professional pride a little -- but then, everything about this whole setup is weird.

Everything.

Such as, for example, the pretty birthday boy -- bird-day boy? -- who is currently speaking with an older man who resembles him enough that one must assume him to be the wealthy Mr King who employed them, and Mr Ricci. Birthday boy looks highly excited -- and keeps pointing at Park.

The message is clear enough to read even from across the swaying, throbbing sea of audience. I want that one.

Park is pushed towards the microphone by the friendly hand of Rekani and is all set to sing her little lungs out when...Itzhak starts singing? Still playing, Park gives a curious look to the other present bandmates. Even an annoyed look. Which gets even more annoyed when she figures out that the music she is playing is not representative of the music booming out around them. Did Itzhak record tracks without them? Tracks that are now being played for the others to mime too?

Park does not mime! That is not the kind of make-up she is wearing. Lip-syncing is for Milli Vanilli or drummers, and Park is neither. If she's not allowed to sing...or play...she can at least dance! It is a good song, and Park has no doubt she had something to do with the composition, just don't ask her where or when. And she certainly wasn't around when Itzhak recorded this track without them.

At least the birthday boy is enjoying himself. Park offering him an occasional smile and wave at his excitement for the music (not her). And, of course, he's looking at her. Who would look at Everett?

On the few times she has her back to the audience, and shakes her tush, Park is giving Rekani and Everett a 'what the gosh is going on' look. But the show must go on!!

“That’s fucking IT!” Rekani finally shouts, unable to tolerate the bullshit any further. Hands balled into fists, face irate, he stomps on the stage. It’s like an invisible shockwave that explodes out from him, small items, sound equipment, then moving on to glassware, plates, whole tables and chairs. Everything that wasn’t weighed down, and even some things that were, burst outward and away from him. Strangely, the items seem to bounce or redirect away or around Everett and Park, like they were protected by invisible bubbles of will.

“The contract was fuckin’ bullshit, your sales pitch was fuckin’ weird,” He was a jabbing a finger in the air directly at Ricci, his voice booming, even if the mic in front of him wasn’t actually hooked up to something. Honestly the sound system was probably a wreck now anyways. “That fuckin Richie Rich Veruca Salt mu’fucka back there keeps lookin’ at my homegirl like she a fuckin’ Tickle-Me-Elmo, and then,” His face takes on a whole new level of incredulous and angry.

“We ain’t even playin music up here?”

Silverware, glassware, flatware, broken shards, sound equipment, a full thousand pounds worth begin levitating up, a silent threat hanging quite literally in the air.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!”

He's Rick Allen, thunderstriking his stick against the leather behind Angus Young on stage.
He's the people of Sri Lanka, using his drum to communicate with communities only able to hear his words, his soul in a musical format.
He's the first caveman idly smacking a rotten log with a stick and noticing the sound for the first time. Everett's all things drumming, past, present, and future.

Mostly because he's playing like a rabid animal flails in a cage and his arms have reached speeds needs never seen before. Just listen to that drumming, it's incandescent, it's power, it's in stereo. He's just so good, drumming happens even when he's not hitting anything. He is so engrossed with what is, and isn't, his magnum opus that he misses the reaction of the crowd. He doesn't need to see them to know bird-chick Lord of the Rings cosplayer nerds are already fishing their panties out. Why wouldn't they?

His head down, his arms flailing like a wanky inflatable tube-arm man set on times twenty speed, he misses the looks from Park. Besides, what's even wrong? Though he is a drummer and he would mime all day long if it meant a paycheque at the end.

It's not until Rekani finally looses his cool that Everett even lifts his head and his playing if it can be called that (and it shouldn't), slows down some so he can fix his baffled expression to the other present male band member in more than just vocals. Then to the floating fixtures. You might think that would get him to stop playing, but you'd be wrong. He's finally on stage now, and truthfully, he gets a little of what Lyric, what the other bandmates were talking about, the feeling of being up there, and what's it?
Oh yeah, being the center of attention. He never gets that.

"Yeah," Everett adds, his deep voice projecting, but not anywhere as effectively as Rekani. Taking a stick away from the symbol he's subjecting to torture, he points it to Park, then birdthday boy. "And stop flirting with him. He probably just wants to build a nest." Everett smirks a little because he'd been holding that one in for a while, more a cautionary tale of the special "party" clause in their contract, then Park is built like a twig.

The events on stage prompt a very mixed set of reactions among the elf-like humanoids that make up the audience. It is very obviously not an audience that has a whole lot of previous experience with how rock concerts are supposed to go; when Rekani effectively ragequits mid-performance, about half of them burst into wild applause, clapping and screaming in their falsetto bird voices, thinking that this too is part of the performance. Amps, glasses, instruments, and the occasional chair flying out of the way? Such effects! Such emotion! Much wow!

The other half of the crowd looks confused and chirp to each other, pointing and shrugging -- and then ignore it much in the fashion of somebody watching a show by performers from a culture so far removed from their own that they have no idea what's going to happen, and most of the context goes right over their heads.

Much like a stereotypical Texan rancher in the Beijing Opera, maybe. He speaks Moo (and if he's multicultural, El Moo). They speak Mandarin.

At least Everett's dream of panties being thrown on stage by adoring fans comes true. Granted, in EverettVision(tm) this probably involved hot young girls taking those panties off right there in his view, and throwing them -- and what he actually gets is Legolas clones with bird voices taking out shopping bags (where did they keep those, their butts, The Sims style?) and throwing panties on stage with glee, along with shirts, jeans, socks, and the occasional hat.

About the same time, another part of the audience reach for their -- candles? They light candles and hold up, swaying and humming along to the music that continues to play whether anyone's touching an instrument or not. You're supposed to light lighters at rock concerts. Clearly they know this, they just don't have zippos handy.

And then, just like that, it stops.

A shaft of light breaks through the cloud layer that apparently passes for house lights control around here, centered on the young man who is obviously Mr King's son, the birthday boy. Oh, he's a looker all right -- if Orlando Bloom and David Bowie had a love child who then got to up his Appearance score to eleven and hire the best tailor in Sherwood Forest, this is what you'd get.

The ground the man walks upon sparkles and glitters.

The air glitters.

His skin glitters.

"I want that one," he says in a voice like melodious birdsong, and points at Park.

Then, he glances back at Mr King -- who honestly looks much like his son, just with a few more streaks of white in his elaborate hairdo -- and Mr Ricci who is sweating profusely for some reason that probably correlates to Rekani's outburst on stage.

"I want that one too," the prince adds, and points at Rekani. "I want them all."

The level of smug on Mr King's face as he looks back to Mr Ricci is worthy of legend. This is the level of smug that makes a fox wear laurels. Tom Hiddleston playing Loki just screwing over the universe for shit and giggles level of smug. Cat that ate the cream, the cake and the prawns, and then went to puke on your favourite throw pillow levels of smug.

"What luck that they signed my contract," Mr King declares, and the undertone of gotcha doesn't bother in the slightest with attempting a veneer of diplomacy or politeness.

A sound like a record scratching.

Reality takes a slight break, has a cigarette, and then jumps back on the train -- or at least on a train going in the same general direction. Destination Elf King thinks he's pulled a fast one remains unchanged, but now the train stops at --

A scream resounds. A high-pitched, shrill shout from a handful of (mostly) feminine throats. A shower of lingerie (and one seven inch leather heel) from one corner of the audience. A commotion as a handful of these bird elf faerie women clamber on stage and run straight for the drummer.

"How fascinating," says Mr King. "Maybe we get new blood into more than one noble house today."

"Quite so," remarks a courtier thoughtfully. "But at least the man is tall. His offspring will be as well."

"Good breeding stock," another opines.

Displays of public affection does not seem to bother these people a lot. Everett is certainly -- making friends.

Rekani explodes and Park hits the deck with a squeal of surprise. Hands up over her head as glass flies everywhere, peering up from her prone position to take in the spectacle.

"Me too!" she squeaks from her safety position, backing up Rekani. A pout for Everett. "I wasn't flirting with him, I was performing! If you performed more openly, you would get fans too!" And, lo and behold, a miracle is happening. Everett has been performing so openly, he is the equivalent of a floodgate of pheromones. What is the collective noun for a group of rabid female groupies after a drummer? A panic? A riot? Fools? Whatever it is, there is a horde of them charging for Everett and the thundering on stage, and a fear of being trampled, has her rolling off the stage and becoming a small ball. No one can see her now.

Every now and then she will peer at the commotion. "Ooh, that's a nice teddy" she muses about some of the lingerie being kicked off stage. No one will mind if she snaffles it, right? So she does, tucking it into her vinyl top. "Rekani!" she wails out for protection - he is the one with an 'axe' in his hands after all. Everett may already be lost to them. Or having a grand old time.

“Fuckin... Got it.” Rekani swears, the spits. His hands go out, the motion a focuser he was apt to use. His fingers close into fists as his mind grabs tables. The floating cloud of silverware and other party accoutrements are abandoned to gravity as he pulls the wide surfaces to himself and the stage. Stepping up to Park and making a pulling motion, two tables would be brought to himself, though they would clip the side of the stage on the way, shearing the legs off so he could use them as he pleased. With a semi-circle sweep of a wave, he sets them in an orbit around his body, staying near enough to the little Korean at the same time she’d be protected.

With a shove of a palm, a third table would be used as a flat-sided battering ram, sent straight toward the rushing crowd of feral (clearly, they had to be feral to have any interest in Everett) groupies.

He keeps his eyes on the approaching son, (sun? Look, it was bright.) glaring, “No one fucking answered my question, so start fucking talking, you Cullen-lookin’ mufucka. We didn’t sign shit” His gaze flicks to Ricci, then back.

It's the bags being removed and their contents being flung on stage that has Everett slowing down further. Baffled, he watches the objects fling, float, and fall a couple of times before he murmurs a question, "We're being showered in laundry?" I mean, it's close. Close enough I guess. Are those acid-washed denim? Everett shrugs and keeps playing by which the random, uncoordinated drumkit is now lightly beaten into submission. The music is in there somewhere. Candles though, yeah. He said they were going to love the band. Everett smirks with overconfidence.

When the birdthday boy approaches, singles Park out and makes his declaration, Everett adds to Park, swiftly, "Well, it was nice knowing you," which he backs with a drumroll. Or, attempted. But the gorilla smiles all the same. And then the prince singles out Rekani, and Everett sounds sad, "Aw, man. I'm going to miss you." When the prince of birdia adds he wants them all, Everett just adds a diminutive, "What?" as though it was fine for the other two to go. But him? That's a step too far. "Aw, nuts."

Everett starts looking around the stage for an exit in the back, using his right forearm to brush his hair out of his face and further smearing the black of his facepaint over his wrist. His attention snaps back, and he points at Park, finally, he stops playing. Not that the drumming halts, it only improves. "We didn't sign nothing, only I--aahh. ... she did it!"

Looking up, Everett takes notice of reality's lunch break, it's a momentary distraction until he hears the screaming. There's a thing, Be careful what you wish for, you might actually get it. And when confronted with what he wished for, and getting it, Everett's orbs go wide as dinner plates.
He flings his drum sticks towards the horde as he stands, turns to show the advancing Maenad his behind as he starts to run. Exit, stage right. Or left. Or run around so he can exit through the front of the stage. Look, what's important here is that he's running and there's a place, in front of him, to run to. Over and under the floating litter. Heck, Mr. Ricci doesn't even take up much space either. To the advancing horde, Everett has but one thing to say: "AAAAAHHHH!" He glances behind him to see if the table flung to slow the feral throng (et tu, Rekani?) but doesn't slow his gait any.

At least one person will be taking home souvenirs -- and Park will probably rock the Sylvan Design lingerie too. It's green and glittery because of course it is, and designed for somebody long legged, willowy, and svelte, because of course it is. If such a thing as overweight fantasy elves exist, they're probably chained in a dungeon somewhere, serving life sentences for crimes against the king's sense of aesthetics. From the looks of these people, appearance is everything.

Although, understanding human fashionwear is not their greatest asset -- there's a certain Disney mermaid approach to accessorising, for example. Glue a few rhinestones to a fork and they probably would use it as a hair clip.

"Is that part of the show?" a courtier with golden ringlets reaching to his sternum inquires as the Aventura Roja abandons instruments and any pretense of playing them in favour of huddling behind Rekani's improvised shield wall.

A great deal of applause at that, too, and even more bird-like laughter. This crowd is highly entertained --

-- except Mr King.

The lead fairy -- elf, whatever these people are -- turns to fix Mr Ricci with an emerald stare. "They signed the papers. They could not come through to my world if they did not sign the papers. What is that man talking about?"

The beads of sweat on Mr Ricci's forehead are approaching anime levels of size and severity. "Well, one of them signed," he says, nervously.

"As long as it's the pretty one," the prince sighs dreamily.

"Not... quite," says Mr Ricci, and sweats a little more.

"Who signed?" asks Mr King, in a voice so cold that the threat of a global warming holocaust is postponed for at least a decade.

"He did," the little manager says and points in Everett's direction.

"Well, then we're keeping him," says Mr King and clearly intends for the drummer's stay to be anything but pleasant.

"About that," says Mr Ricci. A battle is being fought right there on the little man's face. On one side? He wants to live. On the other? What's the point of living if none of your quick money-making schemes ever pay out?

"About that," Mr King repeats, placidly. "What about it?"

"I do wish I could have the girl, though," says his son wistfully.

Mr Ricci swallows. "He technically did not sign his name."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you make several hundred bird people go completely, utterly silent at once.

Even with Park's tribal markings, Everett is wearing way more make-up. He is the pretty one. Everett might even have longer hair. What is the Prince complaining about?

Park cowers near Rekani, offering him a thankful smile for his awesomeness. What Park often forgets, is that she has much the same set of powers. She could be flipping tables too - but that would be rude at a birthday party. Besides, there aren't any tables left . As the legal arguments are made, and Everett is running around with women chasing him (Park expects 'Yakkity Sax' to start playing any moment), she gets to her feet to join her defender and try for some more dignity. Pop stars are known for dignity.

"This is really weird" she whispers to Rakani, just in case he wasn't aware of that. "When did Everett become the cute one? Hey, does that mean I have to be the trouble-maker now?" As Sicky-Ricci. "You couldn't even get the name of our band right! Never mind the names of each of us." Okay, Park may not exactly be sure what the name of the band is by now, but it certainly wasn't any of the name he said. "If you're trying to hijack a band, why choose us? I mean, obviously we're the best, but you could have done the world a favor by taking Dire Straits." Probably not a band laden with pretty people though.

And then there is silence as Stinky-Ricci unveils his biggest faux pas. Only the chirping of a cricket to disturb it...until it is eaten by one of the bird people.

“Right?!” Rekani agrees in a lower, raspy and emphatic voice to Park’s question of when of all people to be the cutest, it wasn’t the Latino DJ himself. Look, everyone has ego issues. There’s a point at the ’Not quite’ where he points at Ricci and risks a glance at Park, bottom lip jutted out, giving a nod, a nonverbal ’See?’ He appends her suggestions a moment later as well, “Or maybe wait a few years and take Nickelback off everyone’s hands.”

Still maintaining the defensive, Rekani seems a little taken aback as the quiet falls, now confused himself on what had just happened. The tables waver, then lower less into a circular orbit, more a static, moveable shield, as he was sure attacks would come from one direction, not many. He didn’t often think about his liberal use of his powers, as most people probably avoided using them as much as he did. Nova was usually the heavy artillery, so Rekani was usually the protector. Either way, he risks it.

“So uh... that means we’re free to go, right?”

Not privy to their whole conversation on account of being chased by a thirsty mob, Everett stops after Mr. King's declaration that the ape is being kept. "Hey!" is the length and breadth of such an argument. Especially after his own flippant departing remarks to his other bandmates. No, now it's his turn, and there'll be objections.
Objection. Once he makes it, Everett looks over his shoulder to see that the Sylvian mob has gone closer. He'll swear he never did it, for as long as the Earth rotates around the sun, but a high-pitched squeak of surprise before he resumes running away, "<b><i>Eeek!</b></i>" Who would have guessed, the gorilla's tomfoolery gets them out of this mess. Let's just not mention that it got them in it either.

Dignity. Yeah, right -- dignity. Everett rushes his fan base by the other members of the band, "I've been the cutest since God invented eyes. Oh, if not them, then how about Alice Cooper, she's a looker!" he replies quickly, then fakes out a fan. Left. Right. Left, right, running again, Everett realizes he's going to run out of room eventually, sooner if they coordinate. So he does the only sensible thing pointing to Rekani, then Park before he jumps off the stage. "Moose. Squirrel."
If he's going to Benny Hill someone, he's going to do it in the hedge maze. As he jumps, he shouts out, "And I'm Batman! We've been the <i>Her Majesty's Red Garages</i>, GOOD NIGHT!" His speech sounds a little fatigued now, since he's been running for a bit, and not giving any signs of stopping. Not even when he opens his arms and flaps them like a bird, "<b>CAW CAW!</b>", but no expletives this time, running for the hedge maze quick.

"What do you mean exactly that he did not sign his name?" The voice of Mr King is smooth as the fur of the Bengal tiger that's about to eat your face.

Mr Ricci fishes the contract out of his jacket and unrolls it, pointing mutely to the dotted line at the bottom.

The prince leans over and reads. "The -- Beast? What's a Beast?"

"It's signed," Mr King says softly. "That means that man's name is Beast, does it not?"

"Not exactly," the little Joe Pesci-lookalike replies very meekly.

"It is a dotted line. Upon which to sign a name," says Mr King, very patiently.

"What else would you put there?" his son adds, baffled.

"Why is he running?" asks the courtier with the long yellow ringlets.

"Sometimes," Mr Ricci explains, very quickly and very nervously, "Human beings lie. That means, they say things that are not exactly -- true. Or write them. This man's name is not The Beast. He just wrote that to mess with you. He didn't tell me. It's not my fault. He made me do it. Look, I would never lie to you, you are my best customer -- "

The prince interrupts him, curious. "So if he says his name is Beast and his name is not Beast, how do we know your name is Ricci?"

"My son is right," Mr King agrees, voice as still as a forest pond. "Maybe your name is not Ricci at all. Maybe your name is Beast."

"Er, I really hope not," his son murmurs.

"Should we -- stop them?" asks the courtier and looks towards the hedge maze into which at least one member of the Red Moscow is disappearing at very high speed.

"Let them go," Mr King says, voice so soft that baby kittens everywhere roll over in their sleep and tuck their little paws into their wee little mouths in a most adorable fashion worthy of a thousand internet gifs. "I want to hear more of this writing things that are not exactly true. Mr Ricci will be most informative, I think."

Mr Ricci will not be back in his office by Monday.

Maybe this is what the fairy court considers a suitable ending to a concert that has been extraordinary in more ways than one. Thunderous applause drowns out the silence (and the protestations of Mr Ricci as he is dragged off towards the manor house). A veritable thunderstorm of clapping hands follows the band's exit --

-- and an exit it is. After a fashion.

Feeling very clever, the Crimson Haze united behind the Platinum Cabaret, feeling quite satisfied with themselves. And why not? Park had scored herself half a year's worth of interesting new lingerie, some of which was even her size. Everett had scored himself a new girlfriend -- as it turned out, at least one elf girl could sprint just as fast as he could, and she was still clinging to his arm when reality somehow shifted and the surroundings once again seemed familiar. Rekani? Well, he wanted to be free to go, and gone he is. Heaven only knows where Itzhak is -- maybe he did in fact sign his name, and stayed behind?

And then reality shifts again.

Three people standing next to a dumpster out behind the Platinum Cabaret, dressed in ways that suggest that they're extras from some eighties movie parody gone very bad. There's glitter everywhere, particularly on Everett's arm -- upon which there is now a distinct absence of willowy maiden. There's a strange hungover feeling, much as one might imagine getting from being booted from one reality into another, and then into a third.

There's costumes and instruments. The former is probably a good thing from the point of view of at least two out of three people present (there's never any way to tell with the big guy, is there?). They're gaudy. They're decidedly 1985. But they're there, and in case of the instruments -- well, a free bass, keyboard, or drum kit is a free bass, keyboard or drum kit, is it not?

Poor Kailey and Mew are going to be in for some sleepless nights.

One minute you're leading the high life, the next you're standing next to a strip club dumpster full of stained towels, stained lingerie, and all the used condoms you could want. Rock and roll!!

Park stands there, stunned and confused - so no change there - until she looks down at her outfit. "Oh, wow, cool threads" she squeals. "And check out the keytar!" Happy to show it off to the others in case they've never seen one before. And a wood finish - awesome. "Hey, did you guys have a dream like mine? It was really crazy. Like, Everett was actually a sex object." Certainly can't have been reality then. "Rekani, is it your shift or mine?"

A meaty hand lifts to Rekani's face, the realization of the passing Weird washing over him as he wipes downward from forehead, over his eyes, then seeming to drag his jaw downward in the stroke until his fingers finally come free of his chin. He blinks a few times, looks around, then finally letting his eyes fall on Park, as if realizing the questions she was posing. A skeptical look would be given Everett's direction before he shakes his head and pops his phone out of his fanny pack, looking at it.

"Lyric's." He confirms, as they'd likely both had the night off that had meant they'd been caught in that weird confluence. He glances at Park with a sigh, "You wanna get a fucking drink?" He asks while he was looking down at his own fresh, double headed bass guitar in resignation.

The vape would find fresh air soon after, Rekani not sure where it had been previous, but taking a long hissing hot of it as he glances around. He does spot some of the lingerie Park had absconded with though, at least one positive idea coming to him.

"Yo, you keeping all of that?"

Dashing into the hedge maze with his posse close at hand, some literally so, Everett appears out another exit and lays his back on the shrubbery to both catch his breath and take an accounting of his surroundings. He's surprised both by wispy hands grabbing his arms aflutter of chirps and that he's back outside the maze again and not in it.
Panting softly, he gives a thumbs up from across the courtyard to the band, before maids, mostly, pull him back in. Gotten. The yank serves to pull him right from that reality and causes his stomach to flop. When there's just one elf gripping his left arm like she's caught a prize, and a new surrounding, Everett exhales deeply. One fey is much better to deal with than a murder, or flock. Or whatever they call a group of themselves. With effort, he pulls his arm from her grip and puts it over her shoulder. As the feeling of another layer beings to unravel, Everett smiles smugly, feeling very clever because it was his plan that saved the day.
Yeah. Plan. Sure. With a self-satisfied smirk, Everett looks over at the elf and asks, "You know what a harem is?"

And then just like that, they're behind the Cabaret. Everett's arm falls to his side, with the lack of bird-girl to keep it up. "Urk," the satisfied sensation doesn't last long as both sensations hit him, layered on each other. The big man manages to take a couple of steps before he doesn't add a new smell; just fresher.
When he stands up again after bracing himself against the Cabaret's wall, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm, he feels the tacky, stickiness of the make-up already there, and on his face, smudging glitter everywhere. That leads to an exploration of his clothes. The first to go are the fingerless gloves, velcro ripping as he pulls them off, and throws them down while watching the pair of them. "Were we roofied by a stripper? That was weird."

He hasn't seen a keytar before. He also hasn't seen a drum kit that close before either, but now that he has this inkling feeling that he is everything that drumming has to offer music, he knows he has to take this home.
Where, as was intimated, there's going to be a lack of sleep in his household. Right until Kailey makes him give it away. Probably to Aidan for helping heal her after she gets out of the hospital. Timelines, man.

But the band's plans don't involve him. So he pats his pockets, and murmurs, "I'm going to need an Uber to get this home," jerking a thumb at the kit. The leather wrist guard joins the fingerless gloves, the thug lifting his head at Lyric's name.

The drummer god returneth.