Terminal 3 of the McCarran International airport is the freshly built and new hub for international travelers. Featuring 14 gates, a state of the art ticketing/check-in area, and baggage claim with a 10,000 square foot duty free store in addition to the expected amenities including dining, shopping, a child day care center and of course, gaming. The high tech showpiece, designed by PGAL architecture was the largest Public works project in the state of Nevada with a cost of 2.4 billion dollars and built to accommodate Las Vegas rapidly growing international business housing foreign airlines ranging from Aeromexico to XL Airways France. Inside the terminal fliers arriving are greeted by no less than 14 modernized replicas of the famous ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign standing at the southern end of the strip with a sign proudly displayed at each gate. The softly colored marble floors line the walkways leading visitors to and from the various store and restaurants with over a hundred 15 foot high interactive digital signs to help passengers better manage their travel related activities. These ‘double sided walls’ have been strategically placed near the arrival and departure gates and, in addition to their interactive features the signs also boast synchronized videos which play at the top and the bottom of every hour advertising some of the many activities available in the city.
Gene Banton Jr. casually leans against one such sign stationed by the departure gate E-4 for Delta Airlines, a nonstop flight to Tokyo Japan. His shoulder resting against the gleaming metal case Junior absently flips through some of the displays including a weather report for Tokyo, an animated map of the terminal showing all of the amenities available and even a night club advertisement. He stifles a yawn glancing over to his father, mother and sister as they sit near the departure gate talking between themselves and then over to the nearby Delta Airlines information booth featuring a bored looking woman of perhaps 40 years twirling a strand of curly chestnut hair waiting for the gate to open. Another glance to his sister Cassie is interrupted by a brightly flashing advertisement on his digital post. Grabbing his attention it promotes the upcoming Climax Control Card with an overly excited commentator running through the list of matches culminating in his mixed tag team match with Amy Marshal against the team of newly crowned SCW champion Simon Jones and Brandi Shotze. Tearing his eyes away from the advertisement and back to his family he mutters under his breath,
“I can beat Simon Jones and my meat at the same damned time”.
Although his family had wanted him to sit with them to spend time chatting with Cassie before boarding her flight to Tokyo, he declined. Ostensibly it was for the reason of it ‘not being his thing’, but deep down inside he knows better than that. He and Cassie are fraternal twins, born 18 minutes apart and have spent their entire lives together since birth. One of the magical mysteries associated with twins and other multiples is a special connection beyond that of ordinary siblings. You will often see them start to say the same thing at the same time and seem to know precisely what the other is thinking. Gene’s thoughts file back to recall several instances of him and his sister having headaches at the same time, or the time he broke his arm with Cassie calling mere moments later to make sure that he was alright. The bond between them is more than simple family; it is a deep spiritual connection. Initially he had played the news of Cassie’s trip to Japan to continue her training off, likening it to a ‘break’, though he could not convince himself of that. Even now as his family sits and waits patiently for her flight to begin boarding he could not help but to feel that an important piece of him would be leaving. He looks on through thoughtful aqua lenses at his sister as she shares a laugh with their mother. Is she thinking the same thing? Does she feel as empty inside as he? Throughout their lives growing up he often knew what his sister was thinking at a particular moment but now, for some reason, he could only draw a blank. Had his sister’s mind finally closed on him?
With a hefty sigh he shifts his weight against the flickering sign, turning his attention to a pair of ticket agents arriving at the booth. They begin chatting amiably with the bored brunette behind the counter seemingly oblivious to the fact that his ‘baby’ sister would be soon traveling halfway across the world. The world could be so cruel at times, people laughing and enjoying themselves while his stomach tears away at him. Of course these people undoubtedly had problems of their own, problems to which he remained blissfully unaware, and problems he more than likely would not give a second thought. This is for the better; his father had assured them both upon breaking the news. Cassie would be exposed to new wrestling styles and techniques. Styles and techniques which would aid her progress as a professional wrestler. His sister was growing up and embarking on her own career and though it is the same career as his it would undeniably lead her down a different path.
“If only we could stay kids forever”, he mutters softly to himself.
'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars
And live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars
The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap
We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat
And we'll hang out in the coolest bars
In the VIP with the movie stars
Every good gold digger's gonna wind up there
Every Playboy Bunny with her bleached blond hair, and well
The lyrics of Nickleback’s ‘Rock Star’ pours softly through the speakers of the radio alarm clock rousting the tired eyes of Gene Banton Jr. open. Sitting up in his bed he rubs away the remnants of a fleeting dream, chasing it back into the darkness of his subconscious and then yawns, stretching his arms out. He listens to the song rather than turning the alarm off which he had mistakenly set while pushing himself into a seated position at the edge of his queen-sized waterbed. The first day of summer and the three month hiatus from school has always been the most difficult for the 13 year old high schooler as his mind was overcome by a flurry of conflicting impulses. What is he going to do for the next three months before starting the ninth grade?
Hey hey I wanna be a rockstar.
Hey hey I wanna be a rockstar.
His eyes brighten with a sudden realization as the song reaches a crescendo and he leaps from his bed excitedly digging through the mess of soiled clothes strewn haphazardly about the floor. Thrusting them onto his feet he then begins rummaging through the pile for a suitable shirt and, giving each candidate a quick sniff he discards them one by one until he finds a winner. Donning it he bolts enthusiastically for the door before suddenly stopping. Looking down he realizes that he had forgotten to don a pair of pants and so it’s back to the pile. Finally ready, socks be damned, he yanks the door open and disappears into the hallway. Trotting down the spiral staircase he notices his mother and sister seated nearby at the dining table having breakfast, a bowl of cereal, most likely Raisin Bran which has always been Cassie’s favorite. With a curt nod to them upon reaching the gleaming white tiled floor he banks left towards the front door with his mother calling out after him,
“Junior, aren’t you going to have breakfast?”
“Not right now mom”, he says hurriedly. “I have a lot to do today”.
Darting out through the front door he hops on his BMX bicycle parked nearby and begins pedaling furiously down the winding, hedge-lined driveway and out onto the street towards the home of his best friends Billy and Mike Barnes. He rides on the sidewalk having been told of the dangers wrought upon innocent pedestrians and bicyclists by Vegas drivers. His father explained the transient nature of Las Vegas, with most traffic courtesy of tourists from nearby cities and towns who were not familiar with the streets. Combined with omnipresent alcohol this lack of familiarity proved to be a dangerous concoction with Sin city routinely placing among the top in the nation in traffic related deaths per capita. Winding down the sidewalk past several affluent, neatly kept homes in the quiet, clean and peaceful Summerlin neighborhood Junior smiles and nods at a neighbor, an old black woman in her 60s walking her small dog, a Black and rust colored long haired Dachshund as it stops to relieve itself on a shrub branch protruding through an iron wrought fence. Continuing on he turns right onto Secret Shore drive, the street his friends live on passing by a line of cars parked along the curb until arriving at his destination, 6232 Secret Shore Dr. Pedaling up the driveway he hoped his friends would be awake though if not he remained determined and would roust them out of bed himself if necessary.
“You’re Goldenboy Gene Banton Jr. aren’t you?”
The gravelly voice asks snapping him from his reverie. Looking down he notices an older man, perhaps 60ish sporting a gray mustache with matching coiffure. Underneath the faux straw woven fedora he could detect a hint at a receding hairline which likely explains the gentleman’s choice of hats.
“Yeah,” he replies softly, his own voice distant and restrained. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m terribly sorry for bothering you, but I’ve been a wrestling fan ever since I can recall. I remember watching your dad when he was a rookie back in the IWA..,” he pauses for a brief trip down memory lane. “Damn what a beast he was, starting his rookie campaign with 110 straight wins! But I digress, I wanted to ask..,” he stammers as if searching for the words. “Well, I was hoping you would be so kind as to sign something for me?” The elderly man looks up him through hopeful hazel eyes. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble”.
“Yeah, sure,” Gene says allowing for a light crease to edge at the corner of his mouth. “I can do that, what do you want me to sign?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any pictures,” the old timer starts while reaching down for his wallet. “I wasn’t expecting to meet anybody like you, but I do have something that would make for a nice little keepsake”. Withdrawing the crusted leather billfold from his pocket the man opens it up and extracts a crisp, new $100 bill. He hands the bill to Junior along with a black sharpie pen.
“Who do you want me to make it to?” Gene asks, glancing at the bill with a smirk.
“Kenneth, Please”, the older man answers.
Pressing the bill against the sign which he had been leaning against moments before Gene puts the sharpie to the special woven cotton linen fabric and writes ‘To Kenneth, don’t you dare spend this! Your friend – Geno’, and then hands the bill and pen back to Kenneth. Kenneth gratefully accepts the bill with a wide smile.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Banton”.
“Call me Geno, please”.
“Thank you Geno. Oh and I also wanted to say that I saw your match with Amy Marshal where you beat Jordan Williams and in all of my years watching this sport I don’t think I have ever seen anything quite so creative as what you pulled off. I really believe that you have the makings of something special”.
“I appreciate the compliment”, Gene replies with a genuine smile. “But, try telling my dad that”.
“Oh believe me; I would, if I knew where he was”.
“He’s right there,” With his trademark smirk; Junior throws a hand over his shoulder pointing towards the gate, “Talking with my mom and sister”.
“Oh..,” Kenneth stutters nervously. “You don’t think he would mind, do you?”
“No, not at all”, Gene replies in a reassuring tone. “Dad loves chatting with fans about the horse and buggy days. But, I would ask one small favor of you..,” he adds with a devilish grin.
“Name it,” Kenneth smiles brightly. “Anything you want”.
“Tell him Simon Jones doesn’t have a chance”, Gene says with a wink.
Kenneth nods enthusiastically and begins to amble towards the group seated by the gate chatting quietly between themselves. Gene leans his shoulder against the giant digital display and watches lazily as the older man approaches the trio to draw his father’s attention. He studies the face of his sister looking on as Kenneth and his dad chat as the fleeting dream of moments before slowly returns.
Gene, Mike, and Billy hop off of the BMX bicycles having arrived back at his home, casually laying them on the pavement in front of the attached four car garage which Gene summarily opens by entering a series of digits into the electronic keypad raising the shutter doors.
“If we’re gonna be famous rock stars,” he says darting into the spacious carport. “We’re going to need lots and lots of practice and I figure we can practice in here”.
With the flip of a switch the garage lights up revealing a pair of vehicles, his father’s red super duty F350 dually and his mother’s yellow Porsche Boxster turbo. Off to the left, nestled in boxes lined neatly against the cement wall are old copies of his mother’s primary choice of literature, the Weekly World News. To the right, also nestled in boxes and lined neatly against the wall, old copies of his father’s choice of literature, Heiny. In the back against the far wall sits a row of commercial grade Craftsman tool boxes belonging to his father in addition to an assortment of power tools as well as a ten foot long work bench.
“Also,” Gene adds approaching the brothers. “We can’t eat any more, and we can’t sleep either”.
“Why not”? Billy cries aghast.
“Come on dude, how many fat rock stars have you ever seen?”
“I don’t know about this,” Mike says sullenly. “I kind of like my double bacon cheeseburgers”.
The telltale creak of a door opening is heard by the group but they shrug it off and fail to notice the silhouette of Gene’s Sister Cassie entering the garage and quietly taking a seat against the far wall on a stool by the work bench. With a wry smile she sits unnoticed and watches as the would-be rock stars plan their future.
“Well, I guess we need a name”, Mike says, shrugging his shoulders in capitulation.
“Wait, How about Grandmaster Funk and the Disciples of Swag?” Gene offers.
Billy and Mike nod in agreement as a stifled guffaw emanating from the back of the garage goes unheeded, intent on continuing their brainstorming.
“Alright,” Billy says. “What are we going to sing about?”
“Dude, this is music,” Gene says shaking his head in dismay. “That means we can only sing about one thing, only one subject”.
“And what, pray tell is that subject?” Mike asks.
“Love,” Gene answers with a shrug. “How many songs have you heard about anything else?”
“I dunno,” Billy chimes in. “I mean, in the old days they sang about all kinds of stuff; war, hate, crime and so on”.
“That was rock,” Gene answers curtly. “And rock is dead now. It’s all about the swag these days which means we have to sing about love. And that gives me an idea for the title of our first album, Of Love and Swag, catchy huh?”
Suddenly a loud thump is heard from within the belly of the garage drawing the attention of the three amigos. Following by a rolling laughter Gene, Billy and Mike investigate the cause of the disturbance and find Cassie lying on the floor clutching her belly in a snickering fit. With a pang of annoyance Gene acknowledges his chortling sibling and extends a hand helping her to her feet.
“Cassie,” he says in a perturbed growl. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Not a chance”, Cassie replies through broken chuckles. “You’re the best show in town and I’m not going anywhere”.
“Alright fine, just sit back there and look stupid. Don’t interrupt us or you’ll be demoted to groupie”.
Placing a hand over her mouth to hide the mirth, Cassie nods and plants herself on top of the work bench looking on through bright eyes in anticipation of the next gag. Gene, Mike and Billy once more head to the opening of the garage to resume their think tank.
“Alright, we need to start practicing”.
“Practice with what?” Billy asks. We don’t have any instruments”.
“How about we make some?” Gene suggests. “I have some string that we can use to make guitars with”.
“Like those phones you made with the tin cans that only worked when you were standing right next to each other?” Cassie says with a snort.
“I said look stupid, not act stupid,” Gene fires back rolling his eyes.
“Geno,” Billy chimes in. “If fans are going to take us seriously we need some real instruments. We’re gonna need to buy some”.
“Ok,” Gene says while digging into his pockets. He pulls out a quarter, two dimes and two pennies. “I have 47 cents,” he says casting aside a piece of lint. “How much do you guys have?”
“Umm.., I got a dollar and 15 cents,” Mike says upon inspecting the contents of his pockets.
“I have 32 cents”, Billy offers.
“I hear Lemonade is a real hot seller this time of year,” Cassie giggles.
“Don’t you have a planet to invade or something?” Gene gruffly replies. “Wait a minute, Mom’s home and she has a platinum credit card”.
“So what”? Mike demands. “It’s not like she’s gonna just hand it over to you”.
“No, Gene acquiesces. “We’ll need to swipe it somehow. That means we need to create a distraction”.
“Like what?” Mike asks.
“We could all ride our bikes through the house yelling and screaming,” Billy suggests.
“Dude, it’s my mom!” Gene says abruptly. “If we tried that with her we’d all leave the house wearing our bikes”.
“Well, how about Mow Mow?” Cassie suggests.
“Cassie you dumb mutant, Mow Mow is a cat! Besides, mom is used to him; no way would she be distracted by him even if he is a Siberian tiger. We need a real distraction”.
“Have you ever heard of catnip?” Cassie says with a wicked grin.
“Wow, Cassie’s a genius!” Billy remarks. “That’s an awesome idea, and we have a ton of catnip at home, but just one question.., how much does Mow Mow weigh?”
“Dad said he weighs 857 pounds,” Junior answers. “So we’re gonna need a ton of the stuff”.
“No problem!” Billy says while reaching down to grab the handlebars of his bike. “They don’t call our mom the crazy cat lady for nothing.” Climbing onto his two wheeled transport Billy starts to pedal off down the driveway. “Let’s go get it!”
“Man, that is going to be one hell of a big distraction”, Mike says as he and Junior chase after him.
“Between you and me Kenneth,” The elder Gene Banton says leaning forward in his seat. “Junior has a nasty tendency to get distracted, despite having a lot more athleticism than I ever did. That kid can do things I could only dream of, if only he could stay focused”.
“That explains the tough love you’ve been practicing with him,” Kenneth says thoughtfully. “You figure if you make him work for every grain of approval you’ll bring out the best in him”.
“You speak like a man with experience,” Gene offers with a brief flash of his pearly whites.
“More than I know what to do with, six kids and 11 grand kids at last count”.
While the men continue chatting Gene Jr. is approached once more, this time by a younger, bespectacled man in his mid-twenties bearing a smattering of bright red pimples which blend nicely with a rumpled maroon sport jacket draped over a soft blue dress shirt sporting a small blot of grease, remnants of lunch. He pauses in front of the stocky youngster leaning against the sign and begins to ponderously shuffle through a bloated, black faux leather travel bag. His hand emerges with a small, hand held mini cassette recorder which he turns over to inspect the battery before flipping the device on.
“Gene Banton Jr. I am Ben Thompson with SCW Insider web site and I would like to ask you a few questions regarding your upcoming Blast from the past tournament match with your partner Amy Marshal against the new SCW champion Simon Jones and Brandi Shotze”, he says in a well-practiced nascent tone.
“How did you get by security?” Gene asks. “It’s supposed to be ticket holders only back here by the gates”.
“Freedom of the press,” Ben replies flashing his credentials which consist of nothing more than a laminated photo ID badge bearing the SCW logo with a barcode on the back, “My favorite right”.
“Since when has harassment been a right?” Gene demands.
“I apologize if I am interrupting you and I promise to be as brief as possible, but I need to ask you a few questions for our weekly column if you don’t mind”.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replies dismissively, his mind preferring to be elsewhere.
“What is your assessment of the performance of your partner Amy Marshal so far in this tournament”?
“Amy has been pulling her own weight”, he answers casually, “Which is about all I can ask of any partner. The positive aspect of this team is that she has a great ass, which gives me something to really focus on when she’s in the ring handling her business”.
“I.., see..,” Ben stammers, his thought process derailed by the unusual answer to the question. Backtracking he flips through a sampling of notes jotted down on a steno pad searching for a suitable follow up. So, what can you tell us about the Jordan Williams incident?”
“Incident?” he laughs, “Since when does beating him become an incident? Look, I outsmarted the guy, it’s really that simple. He grabbed the chair from me, I saw the referee turning around and, like an opossum I decided to play dead. I fail to see how outsmarting a 537 time champion or whatever can become an incident, Next question?”
“Has the recent crowning of Simon Jones as SCW heavyweight champion, in any way, changed your plans for the match this weekend?”
“Not really”, Gene answers curtly. “I mean, at the end of the day he’s still Simon Jones, a man like me, and maybe you depending on the time of day. He still puts on his pants one leg at a time. He still has to pay his bills, eat, shave and shower, like the rest of us. He may need to shower a little bit more and eat a little less than me but in the end he’s still a man. He’s just a man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. And, just like a man, he can be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That place is the Icardo Center in Bakersfield and that time is Sunday, March the 9th, take it to the bank and cash it”.
“What do you foresee this coming Sunday once the bell rings?”
“I see all hell breaking loose”.
Catnip is a perennial herb from the mint family known as Labiatae. It is a flower that grows to nearly three feet in height and has a square, hairy stalk with typically green/grey colored heart shaped leaves with scalloped edges. The flower has an active ingredient which has been known to cause a certain, euphoric reaction in cats, an essential oil called Nepetalactone which can be found in the leaves and stems of the plant. Nepetalactone is believed to cause a hallucinogenic effect and has been compared by some scientists to LSD. It has also been suggested that the plant acts as an aphrodisiac after noting some cats appear not to be affected at all by the stimulus. Further research appeared to indicate that the response to catnip is in fact inherited as an autosomal dominant gene, meaning that the gene only needs to be passed by one parent rather than both. Research also indicates, contrary to previous beliefs, that the effects of catnip are not restricted to domesticated felines as many other species of cat in the wild have appeared to enjoy it.
“Ok, we have to spread this stuff all over the house,” Gene says while leaning over to pour the contents of the 22 pound ‘Happy Cat’ box of catnip on the floor of his bedroom. “If we’re gonna create a distraction we need to have him going everywhere”. Looking up he nods to Billy, “Billy, you go spread some around in Cassie’s room”.
“Why my room”? Cassie cries in protest.
“Because you’re a mutant, so it won’t have an effect on you. Now shut up so I can concentrate. Now, Mike, you go spread some in the laundry room, that should draw mom away long enough for me to swipe her credit card”.
Ten minutes later, after all eight of the 22 pound boxes of catnip have been spread throughout the house, Gene gathers his friends for some final instructions with the snickering Cassie looking on. He ushers them into a semi-circle and leans into the huddle.
“Ok, here’s the plan,” he begins with a whisper. “You guys just hang out on the sofa and watch TV. I’ll go outside and leave the door open so Mow Mow can smell it and when he takes off, you act like you’re scared. Mom will come to the rescue like all moms do and chase after him and when she does I’ll swipe her card and meet you in the garage”.
“What about your dad?” Mike asks softly.
“He’s out of town for a match; he won’t be back until tomorrow night”.
As the trio breaks from the huddle Cassie surreptitiously slinks to the corner of the spacious living room, grabbing a leather, high-back recliner and nudging it into position to allow her access to a gold and crystal ornamented chandelier, which she promptly climbs onto providing for a safe vantage point. Barely able to contain her laughter she looks on as Billy and Mike meander of to the three piece sectional sofa to take a seat before starting a fight for the remote control. Her brother meanwhile, makes his way through the dining room where his mother sits perusing the latest edition of the Weekly World News, casually opens the sliding glass door and steps outside onto the patio. He glances across the yard to the fenced in section where the Siberian Tiger in question is kept to ensure that the gate to the enclosure is open as his parents often do, preferring to allowing the giant cat free roam of the house. Satisfied, he pretends to look for something on the patio for a moment while keeping a keen watch on his mother out of the corner of his eye. She appears oblivious to his actions, her attention engulfed in the tabloid. Finally, he quietly walks back inside, grabbing a bottle of water off of the breakfast bar and looks over his mother’s shoulder, pretending to be interested in what she is reading. The caption at the top of the page leaps out in bold black and white print grabbing his eyes and alerting them to Bat Boy’s latest promotion to Surgeon General of the United States.
A loud, agitated roar emanates from the yard followed by the rapid-fire thumps of footsteps. Gene carefully backs away, not wanting to alert his mother prematurely to the events about to unfold and slowly back steps into the kitchen after giving a cursory inspection to ensure that no catnip had been dispensed there. Another roar is heard as the gigantic cat bounds through the open patio doors and charges through the dining room. Morrigan looks up lazily from her magazine at the cat but quickly dismisses its actions, lowering her head back into the folds of the magazine. A throaty growl rumbles throughout the house, accompanied by a thunderous bump and the crash of a bookshelf in the living room. A short grunt and a second crash are heard as the television takes a spill onto the living room floor.
“What the bloody hell has gotten into that cat?” Morrigan muses in annoyance while rising from her seat.
Another full throated roar is accompanied by a pair of grunts and the sound of glass shattering as Mow Mow jumps up onto the dining room table and the structure gives way to his heft. Suddenly the cat bolts back to his feet and charges across the house where he takes a bite out of the living room drapes and pulls them from their station. Morrigan follows him and manages to corner the anxiously fidgeting beast in the corner. Carefully she approaches, extending her arms in an effort to calm him.
“It’s ok Mow Mow,” she says in a soothing, reassuring tone of voice. “Everything is alright”.
The response of felines to catnip is mediated through to olfactory system. When Nepetalactone enters its nasal passages, it binds to the olfactory receptors located at the olfactory epithelium. This stimulates sensory neurons, which trigger neurons in the olfactory bulb to send signals to the brain which then sends out signals on how to react to the stimulus. Simply put, the stronger the smell, the stronger the response. Some cats may respond with licking, chewing and head shaking. Others have been seen to react aggressively, a sudden need to protect their toys, if only they knew where those toys were.
With another roar Mow Mow bowls over his mistress and charges up the spiral staircase, his muscular 857 pound frame catapulted by immeasurable strength sufficient to knock the guard rail over where it lands with a crash onto the living room floor in pieces. Gingerly approaching the remnants of the staircase Morrigan is slow to give chase this time over concern of cutting her feet on shards of glass which are now strewn about the front of the house. A short, chirp-like growl and Mow Mow leaps from the second floor back into the living room and obliterates the vacated sectional. Billy and Mike, their eyes wide with fright hastily scamper towards the foyer. Glancing back they are given the ‘Thumbs up’ be Gene who quickly joins them in beating a hasty retreat.
“Mow Mow, you sit your arse down and behave yourself, young man!” Morrigan demands, her tone now firm and angry. “I will have now more of this from you, Mister, is that clear?”
Surprisingly the giant cat closes its eyes and drops down, bowing its head demurely in reply to the demands of the mistress of the house. Morrigan grabs a leash hanging from the wall beside the patio door and approaches,
“Now, we’re going to put this on and take you back outside until you calm down,” she says.
Gene, Billy and Mike pedal their bikes madly in a race down the driveway beating a path to the music store as another roar, followed by the exasperated cries of his mother rings out.
“Oh, wow,that worked great!” Gene enthuses. “It’s like a catastrophe in there!”
“Merriam-Webster defines catastrophe as a momentous tragic event ranging from extreme misfortune to utter overthrow or ruin,” Gene says, his steely gaze burning into the uncertain visage of Ben Thompson. “It also describes it as a violent, usually destructive natural event like a hurricane or earthquake. The funny thing is that science can’t predict such events, which is why they are most often referred to as catastrophes. Sometimes however; they are predicted, and people are warned. Like the typhoon that devastated the Philippines. They knew about it days in advance and warned people to get the hell out of Dodge. Most people took their advice, but those who didn’t were found washing up on shore. I am warning Simon Jones right now; if he shows up at the Icardo Center this Sunday he is going to become the victim of a man made catastrophe, enveloped in an inescapable cocoon of horror, trapped, embarrassed and utterly demolished by the single most awesome force of nature this sport has ever seen. Hurricane Geno is about to make landfall, so batten down the hatches and jump into your storm shelters because this is about to turn into one hell of a bumpy ride”.
“Are you concerned about how your partner, Amy Marshal might fare in the ring against Brandi Shotze?”
“Should I be?” Gene scoffs. “Amy can handle her end just fine, and if, by some wild stroke of misfortune she should find herself in a hairy situation it’s no big deal. All she has to do is tag me and I’ll handle the heavy lifting. But, as I said, Amy can carry her weight so I don’t foresee any problems here”.
For several minutes now the interview has drawn on, Ben Thompson eagerly checking off notations on his pad while searching for the next question to pose. Somberly he tolerates the presence of the reporter while wishing he would simply leave. But each question asked served to quickly dash his hopes as he found himself trapped in an interview he did not want to do, and with a man he didn’t much care for. Surely he must have noticed the presence of his family seated by the boarding gate? Gene had thought it painfully obvious that onlookers would be able to discern his presence here as family business, as the elderly fan Kenneth, who has now left to tend his own business had done before him. His sister is preparing to leave the country for several months yet this person has the audacity to tie him up with inane questions that have been asked and answered numerous times prior in the week leading up to the match, but a cursory glance at the interviewer tells him that even more questions are on their way. Enough is enough.
“Let me ask you a question,” Gene says, seizing the moment. “Let’s say your sister, with whom you’ve spent your entire life was about to leave the country for a long time. How would you feel if some pimple faced geek with a tape recorder obnoxiously wasted all of your time instead of allowing you to spend it with her?”
“I – I.., “I would be upset I suppose..,” Ben stammers caught completely off guard by the assertive nature of the question. “If.., if you would like..,”
“I would like you to leave,” Gene interrupts. “I’m going to give you five seconds to leave here under your own power or the freedom of the press is gonna meet the freedom of my foot”.
“I’m sorry.., I..,”
“5..,”
“4..,”
“3..,”
Realizing the comparatively gigantic brawler was dead serious in his statement; Ben Thompson anxiously shoves the mini cassette recorder into his pocket and hastily departs the area. Gene looks on as the thin, wiry man disappears into the labyrinth, hopefully not to be seen again. With a sigh he shifts his weight against the sign and looks in the direction of his family. Why he is here off by himself rather than seated with his family? The question seems obvious enough, though the answer is not. He had told his mother that Cassie would be back soon and he saw no point in saying goodbye, but inside he knew better, he does not want to say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone you have literally shared your entire life with? The gnawing deep inside of him tells the answer, painfully.
Four hours had passed since the landfall of Hurricane Mow Mow and the effects of the catnip had long since worn off with the large feline now sleeping peacefully in his cage while Gene’s mother busied herself cleaning up the wreckage. Gene, Billy and Mike had returned from their quest for musical instruments, their arms laden with the symbols of their dreams courtesy of Mom’s credit card. Billy stands behind a keyboard while Mike familiarizes himself with an electric guitar. Gene stands in front of the pair trying to configure a device referred to in the music industry as a voice box, but perhaps better known by its nickname the talk box. Essentially the device is an effects unit that allows musicians to modify the sounds of a musical instrument or even their own voice. Gene’s device is one of the better known boxes around, an electro harmonix vocal harmony processor with vocoder, similar to the one used by the Black eyed peas’ front man Will I Am and dozens of other musicians. The vocoder is an electronic analysis/synthesis system used to reproduce human speech. Used in conjunction with the talk box the vocoder can be used to create entirely different voices, although they almost always sound electronic in origin.
While Gene fiddles with the gadget, his sister Cassie seats herself at the edge of the lawn in a reclining lawn chair with a soda and a bag of popcorn snickering in anticipation of her brother’s actions. Suddenly, as the sharp twitch of a guitar string is head through the amplifier and 18 inch concert speakers, she drops the popcorn and brings her hands to her ears.
Mike shrugs, “At least we know it’s hooked up,” he says.
Billy joins on striking a few keys on his board, but they bear no resemblance to music, and instead sound more like the random tapping of a small child on his toy xylophone. Frowning, he looks down at the cord draped over his feet and follows it to its source; the floor in front of the amplifier. Bending over, he gently plugs it in and goes back to his new toy. Checking the keyboard to ensure that the device is turned on, Billy strikes the keys again, and the clanging sound emanating through the speakers tells him that all systems are go.
“Alright,” Gene announces setting his talk box down on the floor by his feet. “I’ve got the first line of the song made up. I’m gonna sing it and after I do, you guys try to find the right beat for it”. He pauses briefly, waiting for his friends to acknowledge with a light bob of their heads and then continues, “The title of the song is ‘My swag, my pain’, and we need to..,”
He is cut off by the obnoxious cackling of his sister who nearly chokes on her soda, looking at him through gleaming, tear filled eyes, her cheeks flushed to a bright red hue matching the tint of her mane. She silently begs pardon, extending her right hand while trying to pinch her lips shut. Gene looks on in annoyance waiting patiently for his sister to regain control of her emotions and, once satisfied, he signals the makeshift band of his intent to begin.
“Ok,” he says while taking a deep breath. “On three, one.., two, three.., Oh baby my Swag hurts for you”.
The vocoder, connected to the microphone and operated via a switch by his foot intercepts the signal from the microphone and runs it through contorting the sound to the parameters set by its programming and settings and then emits a shrill, metallic pulse, coiling his vocals into an assonant, anodic, howl which reverberates violently off of the cinder block walls of the garages with a high pitch prompting the trio of boys and Cassie to cover their ears in pain. The resonance lingers for but a moment and then quickly subsides, but it is replaced by the deep cachinnation of his sister, who accidentally rolls off of her lawn chair and lands on the grass with a muffled thud. Clutching her sides she looks up at her brother with tears streaming down her blushing cheeks.
“It hurts!” she cries.
Concerned, Gene drops his microphone and approaches her, stooping to a single knee. Grasping her by the shoulder he lifts her to eye level and then asks,
“What hurts?”
“My swag,” Cassie says in between chortles.
“I think we need another groupie”, Junior says, dropping his sister back to the ground.
“How about your mom”? Billy suggests.
“I would be delighted to be your groupie,” a husky, feminine voice declares. The sudden announcement prompts the trio to turn around to find Morrigan, Gene and Cassie’s mother standing just inside of the entrance to the house from the back of the garage tapping a baseball bat in her hands. “But before we commence to make ourselves rich and famous,” she continues in her crisp Irish accent. “There is one more thing we need to do, something all rock stars like to do..,”
Without waiting for any of the group to ask the obvious question, she turns her attention to the keyboard which has been vacated by Billy upon noting the sour tinge in her voice, and proceeds to demolish the instrument with the Louisville Slugger. The two concert speakers emit an anguished chorus of disturbance as the bat is then turned on them followed by the electric guitar having been dropped by a retreating Mike. Finally she comes to her son, who stands motionless, staring blankly at her as she snatches the microphone from his hands. Dipping into the side pocket of her red and white hoodie, she sprinkles it with catnip.
“Mow Mow will love this, don’t you think?”
She stands straight and points the business end of the bat towards Billy and Mike and then says sternly,
“Unless you two would like to be a part of a $4,582 dollar ass whipping I think it’s time you said good bye”.
Casting another glance to the booth, Gene notices the absence of the two ticket handlers. Drawing a deep breath he quickly turns his head and gaze towards the gate where his sister expects to board her plane and sees them busily preparing for the boarding procedure. In moments they would begin accepting tickets and boarding passengers and his sister would be leaving.
Gene, Morrigan and Cassie stand up from their seats, the younger redhead grabbing her carry on duffel bag and steps to the ticket handlers. They exchange glances with their prospective passenger and then with the digital clock on the booth in front of them,
“Just one more minute,” the woman on the right says.
“May I have your attention please,” the overhead public address speaker squawks lively. “Flight 412 from Las Vegas to Tokyo Japan has been grounded while the FAA investigates reports of a mutant in the vicinity. Once again, flight 412..,”
Gene Senior, Cassie and Morrigan crane their necks in the direction of the booth to see Junior wrestling for control over the PA system with the attendant at the information booth. Three uniformed security officers quickly converge on the scene to ensure that the young man drops the mic as his father and mother intervene on his behalf to do damage control. With Mom and Dad engaging the security officers along with the disheveled attendant Gene Jr. slowly backs away and turns to find his sister staring at him from behind a bright smile.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
“The truth is,” he sighs wistfully, looking at her through somber lenses. “I don’t want you to go”. He places a hand on her sinewy shoulder and continues, “I thought I could play it cool, but I can’t. I already miss you”.
“Awww..,” she coos while drawing him into an embrace. “I’m going to miss you too”. She whispers while choking back a threatening tear.
“I love you Cassie”.
“I love you too”.
Finally, after a good ten minutes of arguing with security and the booth attendant, Gene Senior and Morrigan withdraw from the scene of the crime having convinced them not to press charges. They join their children to say their goodbyes, exchanging embraces with Gene Senior pausing to remind Cassie that he would be flying to Tokyo to check in on her in person in two weeks. Morrigan adds that she wants her daughter to call as often as she wants to, and to reverse the charges if necessary and finally, Cassie boards the plane, leaving Junior to his thoughts which have suddenly emptied out, leaving his mind numb and blank.
He follows his parents through the corridors of the terminal on their way to the parking lot and pauses at another one of the high tech digital display signs which is flashing another advertisement for his Blast from the past tournament match with partner Amy Marshal against the team of newly crowned SCW champion Simon Jones and Brandi Shotze. He places his right palm against the LED screen thoughtfully and drums his fingers along the surface.
“This one is for you, sis”.
