The Listed

Chapter Two

He couldn't kill that one. She was too beautiful. She'd be surrounded by suitors day and night. It was too difficult to reach the beautiful. Stick to pretty, he thought. But I know what you're thinking: What is beauty? Truth is beauty, a poet once wrote. Then what the hell is truth? I am truth. Therefore, am I beauty? Does beauty drive a vintage T-Bird, 1966? Restored from the bare bones. Piece by piece. Till that engine 390 V8 roared to life. Three speed automatic. Roomy interior. Space enough to work. To find pretty. Like the one coming out of the library. He knew her. Carmen something. Lestrada? Leonard, perhaps. "Ms. Leonard," he called through the open passenger window. 

"Yes, sir," she said, bowing to look inside the car. "Oh, hi, Professor."

"You shouldn't be walking alone at this hour of the night. Let me drive you to your car?" He smiled his winningest smile.

"Thank you." She got in and set her books on her lap. "Nice car. Is it yours?"

He gave her a funny look.

"Of course it's yours. What was I thinking?" she gently laughed. "My car is in Lot Five."

"Heading there now. Studying for the midterm," he asked without curiosity. 

"Yeah, but I think I'm ready. Just a good night's rest, and I'll ace that exam in the morning." There was confidence in her voice. 

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Carmen, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yep, that's me. Carmen Leonard. You got a good memory, Professor." She smiled proudly. "You can pull over here. There's my car."

"What kind of gentleman would I be not to see you to your car door?" He pulled into the parking lot, turned left, and put the car in neutral while yanking the parking brake up. "Hold on. Let me get your door."

"Thank you," she said with a slight blush. 

He escorted her to her car, where she unlocked the driver's side and scooted into the seat behind the steering wheel. "There, all set and ready to go home."

"Yes, you are, my pretty," the Professor said with the happiest grin. He reached over and dragged the linoleum knife across her throat. The gush of blood covered the inside windshield and splashed over Carmen's shocked face. "Nothing more to say, I see."

The Professor walked back to his car, removed his coat, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it into the back seat. He'll dispose of it in the basement furnace tonight, and then have a quiet dinner. Indeed she was a pretty one. But that was with make-up. The beautiful ones don't need cosmetics. And she liked the car. That was almost her ticket to freedom, except she wondered how someone like me could own such a car. Naughty. Whatever did she mean by that? We'll never know now. 

He turned the car into the freeway headed for home. He clicked the radio knob and "American Pie" was playing. He sang along while he wiped his face with a towelette. 

 

How I See the Aging of Rock and Roll

Generations by Decade

by Anthony Servante

I've compiled a list of art and music scene by decade, starting with 1890 to 2010, to encapsulate my view of trends being anachronistic from day one. That is, every new fad is already outdated as soon as it begins. Let's begin. 

1890 Lost Generation (Purple Reign & Fin de Siecle Decadents)
1900 Interbellum Generation (Progressives & Union Men)
1910 G.I. Generation (All-Americans & Military Men)
1920 Greatest Generation (Flappers & Boaters)
1930 Silent Generation (Be Boppers)
1940 Swing Generation (Swingers & and Jives)
1950 Beat Generation (Beatniks & Bohemians)
1960 Hip Generation (Hippies & Yippies)
1970 Me Generation (Glams & Disco & Punks)
1980 Generation X (Slackers & New Wave)
1990 Millennial Generation (or Generation Y & Grunge)
2000 Generation Z (or the Tweens & Emo)
2010 Generation Alpha (Hipsters & Beards & Nerd Chic).

Now keep in mind that no generation begins on any one date at any given time. There's a lot of overlap and carry-over. But I think this system works best for pigeonholing. The Purple Reign, for instance, had Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. The G.I.s had "all-American" songs like "God Bless American" and "Over There". I also like the decade system because then we can see how certain generations hold up to aging. Slackers, for instance, are now in their 50s. 

I go to many Rock and Punk music concerts and old rockers and punks are not a pretty sight, I can tell you. And that's how I look at every new generation--by how they will grow old. Imagine the bearded hipsters when they're in their 40s and 50s still trying to look current and relevant. 

Anyway, I can't say I've been part of any fad or craze, but my heart has always been beatnik in spirit, if not in decade. I'm from the New Wave/Glam Rockers age. I just never wore it. I've always seen every generation in its time as anachronistic, always outdated as their generation blossomed and withered in the same moment. 

Take my pessimism with a grain of salt. Enjoy your youth. Every one of these generations did. Cool, Daddy-O. :)

The Listed

Chapter One

Number Ten

 

Malcolm Barre chugged down the last of his beer and tossed the can toward over a pile of dirty laundry by the basement door. The can struck the cracked antique lamp Malcolm had purchased without asking his wife's consent and rolled against the kitchen door. Next to the can were pieces of torn up photos that Malcolm ripped on one of his drunken binges. He ignored the pictures and popped open another beer can. 

But try as he might, he kept sneaking a peek over to the photos, trying to reattach them in his mind. This piece went with the picture of Bernice holding baby Patricia with Malcolm Jr. standing by her side. That piece showed the Acapulco beachfront hotel where he and Bernice honeymooned. The other pieces were unknowns, just another pile of discards. 

"The bitch," he muttered under his breath, and felt better for it. "How dare her leave me for that asshole ex-boss of mine, Mr. Roget. So what if I spent all my money on antiques. Didn't she realize that antiques increase in value over time. So we were late with the rent a few times. In the long run, these antiques would make us rich." He ran his hand along the crack on the neck of the lamp and sighed sadly.

 Yet she complained that I always brought them but never sold anything, and it was stealing food off the table. She was so dramatic. She just didn't understand the business. Just like my stupid boss didn't understand. I made good purchases for his shop. It wasn't my fault that the customers couldn't appreciate the gems he had chosen. Boss said he'd rather have cheap pieces that sold than "gems" that just sat there. 

I tried to explain to him that all collectors wanted these days was kitsch-- crucifixes that glow in the dark, fiberglass chairs with six legs, and bean-bag furniture. It was no wonder the wicker furniture stores were running us out of business. Then get me those things, Mr. Roget yelled at me. Any sale is a good sale. No sale is just plain dumb. Your paycheck should be coming out of the profits, not my pocket. 

I should have killed him that day. Gutted him like a fish. And her too. Why the hell did she leave me for him?! Damn, he was old enough to be her father's father. Maybe now is the time. They would be here this weekend to drop off my belongings. I'll buy a chainsaw, a hacksaw, and some of that acid stuff like you see in the movies. I'll buy them all at separate stores. Pay cash. Wear a cap and overcoat. Places where they don't know me. No witnesses. Do it right. No evidence. No blood. No hair. Nothing but memories. And they can't convict you for memories. 

I should have done it years ago, on the day she first started nagging me about the beer and bills. Made me wonder when it was she met my ex-boss. I wonder how many afternoons they slept in our bed while I was out making purchases for Mr. Roget. I should have killed them a long time ago. Well, better late than never. 

A grin spread across Malcolm's face like the slice of a good barber  razor fresh off the strap. He stared at the TV in his little cabin hideaway, oblivious to the wrestling match, lost in his little fantasy of murder that played out in his imagination by the sixth can of beer. 

He didn't even notice the noises coming from the kitchen. Not until the wrestling match turned to a commercial about toothpaste. He froze in the seat. Tried to remain silent, so he could hear more clearer the sounds in the kitchen. Two people were in there. He dimmed the lamp light and saw the shadows at the bottom of the kitchen door. One of them was at the door, the other just behind him. 

Then another noise sounded at the window to his right. His eye twitched as he tried to focus on any movement in the dark trees about thirty yards away. The only light he had to help him see outside was his cracked lamp that he had dimmed. All he could see was the silhouettes of branches and trunks. But there was a sound. How dare they interrupt his fantasy. He was about to chainsaw his ex-wife's head off. Then he was in his ex-boss's office about to hack him to bits. 

The kitchen doorknob started to turn. He reached under his seat and found his loaded 38 revolver. Come to papa, Malcolm thought. He switched the light from dim to dark, and fired three shots at the kitchen door. The door squeaked open, followed by a grunt. Someone shouted, Back it up, I'm hit. Malcolm fired two more shots. That's when he saw the two men wearing ski masks and gloves. Both had on similar black clothing. He leveled the barrel at the burglar in front for another shot when all of a sudden he heard the window glass crack. 

He felt dizzy. There was a B-B sized hole in the pane, right in the center, perfectly aligned for a trajectory to his right temple. With his left hand, he confirmed his estimation by touching at the right side of his head. There was a small puncture bleeding out. Bullseye, except he wasn't dead. 

He looked around as if in slow-motion. His gaze settled on a piece of torn photograph. It showed Bernice's sad eyes, tired from crying night after night over her husband's excessive drinking and stupid spending. He was worse than a gambler, the pawn shop guy told him; he was a collector of junk. Suddenly he understood her suffering. She wasn't lusting after Mr. Roget. He was just a friend. My friend. Her friend. He glanced down and saw all the blood pooled by his chair. He dropped his gun into that pool, and it splashed and sank. Or so it seemed.

The two men from the kitchen entered the TV room. One of them opened the front door where three other similarly dressed figures joined their team. Double-check and triple-check, said a female voice. I did already, came the angry reply from a male voice, one of the guys from the kitchen. Well, check again, she ordered. The angry male opened his leather binder. That's him, he confirmed; Malcolm Barre, Number Ten. Targets in play were Bernice Barre and Kyle Roget. Deadline was this weekend, three days from now, Saturday. Either with a chainsaw or hacksaw. Not a 38? the female in charge asked. Not according to our records. Good enough, she said; now let's wrap it up.

Malcolm realized he had been shot with a dart gun, some sort of sedative. Mixed with the booze, he didn't feel a thing, not even as the five dark figures fired lethal darts into his flesh until he was cold dead.

To be continued... 

The Seven Orbs

Chapter One

Birth and Death

1.

Lightning split the darkness, and thunder shook the earth. The brief moment of light chased the shadow of the castle into the black forest and covered the front of the castle with tiny sparks that flickered out as soon as they appeared. In the main bedroom of the queen, Lady McMiland screamed as the contractions grew more frequent, longer, stronger. The Nuns of Our Father of Mercy Convent attended to the pregnant Queen. The Lady had labored for nearly four hours now and no sign of crowning. The candles' flames fluttered as a breeze shot into the royal room high in the tower where the physicians oversaw the birth. Another jagged bolt raced across the night sky followed by the low rumble that quaked the very walls of stone.

“Bring the boiling water now,” ordered Sister Jessica, and the two younger nuns obeyed.

The lady screamed again.

“Drink, my Lady,” said Jessica and raised the bottle of dram to her lips. The lady refused. She ground her teeth as the sweat flowed over her face. Another flash at the window sent the nuns scurrying to protect the flames that the gusts of wind threatened to extinguish.

In the base-floor dungeon, the Wizard Greyeye read from the ancient text. He was too old to remember the words and relied on the book to cast his spells.

“Nar Wince Balu Con Tar Wince Indu Lar,” he spoke aloud as the thunder roared.

First, a flicker of light appeared, faded, and grew to the size of a pebble. Greyeye repeated the words. The illumination now as big as an egg and bloated till the orb was the size of a bush made of glass. This was the first of the hundred orbs that the King had demanded. His hand trembled as his index finger dragged across the words of the spell once more. The grey-haired, wrinkly wizard continued to read till another orb started to form. 

The baby’s head crowned, and the lady huffed through the pain. Blood dripped generously from her womanhood as the male child emerged from her body. The nuns cut the cord with a dagger and blanketed the crying baby. Jessica said a prayer and crossed the child's forehead with her thumb. As the nuns helped the Queen raise up a bit, Jessica handed the baby to its mother. The child stopped crying as its mother held it.

The storm broke, but a steady rain continued. 

After creating six orbs, the wizard struggled with the seventh. With what little strength he had left, he read the spell once more, but only once. for the wizard’s heart gave way and his breath ceased. He fell dead unto the cold stone floor, right beneath the seven orbs.

2.

Coming soon...

The Screenplay Writer

Lee Mavin saved the document on Libre Office and leaned back on his hard wood chair. The story was finally finished. It was epic. It was romantic. It was tragic. And it all belonged to Bella Blake, his ex, who gave up on marriage to pursue a career in acting. With her photogenic good looks, the offers came, but mostly supporting roles, like the best friend or the sister in the middle. This was the story that would change all that. He wrote it for her, for her to be a star, and for himself to maybe win her back. But he knew that was a contradiction. If she was a star, she’d leave him even further behind than she had already with that messy divorce. He didn’t want to let her go, but he had to, because with or without the separation, she’d abandoned him for Hollywood. 

That’s when he got the idea. Write her the perfect screenplay. Encourage her success. 

The story was simple. Space creature comes to Earth in the disguise of a human female. She’d then scout the Earth for conquest. Her planet was counting on her to find the perfect world to colonize. All told, the story was about a budget of $50 to $100 million to make it to the big screen. 

Time to call the agent. 

Maxine Mayler represented Lee's books to publishers and to movie studio heads. She had a very generous contact list, powerful people who traded favors for information. Hollywood was the only place where insider trading was a requirement to be an agent. Maxine called in one of those favors. A few days after I sent her the screenplay, she notified me that Time & Tide Entertainment wanted the story. That's when I threw Max the curveball. I would give up first rights if Bella was tied to the role of the space creature. Max tossed back a bigger curveball: The producer, Harry Leader, demanded the same thing when he read the script: He, too, wanted Bella for the part.

Then the whole jealousy thing flared up. What did he want from Bella besides acting? Max told me in a calming voice, He wants the same thing you want, for Bella to star in the film. A moment of quiet, a deep breath, and I said, Sell it. Then I hung up and let the worry furrow my brow. What had I done?

Harry Leader met with the production team after the first day of shooting was complete. They all had the same complaint: Drop the "space alien" angle. Make the main character a power broker from some big firm angling for a hostile takeover. Harry chewed on the request a few days before contacting Maxine and informing her of the change. No problem, Max said. One more thing, Harry added, We want to drop Mavin as main writer and tack on a "Based on an idea by Lee Mavin". What do you think? Max answered, It's your movie now, Harry. As long as Bella is the star, Lee's happy. Good to hear, good to hear, and then Harry hung up.

That afternoon, Harry's boss, Drew Kirby, President of T&T E, called Bella Blake about the changes to the script and notifying her that he sent a courier with the new script. When Bella received her copy a few hours after Kirby called her, she saw that Lee's name was taken off the new storyline. It broke her heart. She wondered if he knew about the changes.

Lee got the call from Max about the changes right about the time the T&T E courier was halfway to Bella's place. He didn't care. As long as Bella was happy.

The trade papers front-covered the story: Bella Blake returns to the big screen playing an oil tycoon who takes on the corrupt oil industry. Social media picked up on the story and saturated every platform with the news: Bella was back.

Harry finished reading the Hollywood Daily and smiled at the front cover with Bella's beautiful face. He always had a thing for her. Plus this was a million dollar project. He was on top again. The studio went in with the whole $100 million, with a $50 million marketing chaser. He'd attend all the premieres with his star, he'd wine and dine her, he'd buy more scripts for her to star in. She'd be grateful. They always are.

Lee Mavin was happy. A pile of trade papers covered his desk. Bella's beautiful face graced the cover of every one of them. Then someone knocked at his door. He answered suspiciously. No one knew about his new studio apartment. It was Bella. She was fighting back tears. Just listen, she said. I'm not making the movie. I walked out. Do you mind if I come in for some coffee, or just to talk? Remember when we talked for hours? Lee said, But it's your big comeback. With all those changes, it wasn't our movie anymore. He said in response, Maybe this is our movie. She smiled and walked past him, entering the neat writing studio where she knew he liked to hide.

Without looking straight into the camera and winking at the audience, Lee closed the door with THE END written right beneath the peephole.

Rear View

Day ends

Night begins

The streets and I 

Fill the middle;

A tailgater hits his high beams;

I am blinded

And escape into the freeway;

He follows;

I speed to 80,

He to 81;

I slam the brakes;

He jets around me 

And slams his brakes;

I swerve around him

And exit;

He follows;

I am far from home, 

But so is he;

I blow through

The red lights; 

So does he; 

I duck into a dark

Deserted street,

Full of emptiness

And potholes;

The street veers off

And dies in a dead-end;

I stop;

He stops, trapping me;

He hits his high beams

Once more;

I squint into the rear view mirror;

He is laughing:

It is me.

Music of the Macabre 

from Tom Lehrer

Reviewed by

Anthony Servante

Tom Lehrer and Friend

Before entering the field of music entertainment, Tom Lehrer taught math at the University of California at Santa Cruz. With a few gruesome songs in mind, he wrote and recorded them on vinyl, selling them at the university for a few dollars. Eventually students bought the inexpensive lps and resold them for a profit. Soon Lehrer developed a small following. Initially, his songs dealt with macabre themes but eventually graduated to political satire, always keeping the grotesque side of the music in the lyrics. 

Lehrer feeding pigeons.

It wasn’t until Lehrer’s music gained airplay on England radio stations that the music developed a larger following and Lehrer began to tour. His work was translated to German as well as other languages. His morbid style fit the European sentiment. Still, success eluded him in the US, that is, until his lp “That Was the Year That Was” (1965) was released. His gift for political satire combined with his macabre lyrics was the right combination to win over American audiences. 

I have selected songs ranging from his macabre days to his satiric heyday. Here they are:

“When You are Old and Gray” is a song about ‘carpe diem’, that is, seize the day. He describes the curse of getting old and equates it with moral disgust. This attitude pokes fun of the Fifties style of songs where love was forever. 

“Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” continues Lehrer’s jabs at sentimental love by showing a young couple in love killing the birdies and other animals in the park. The up-tempo happy song replaces the act of lovers feeding the creatures of the park with that of them murdering the unsuspecting fowl with chilling yet cheery results.

“I Hold Your Hand in Mine” extends the lovers’ theme with a slight twist on the old ‘holding hands’ approach to puppy love. His sickest song is also his most popular.

  

“The Irish Ballad” continues the sick humor approach to popular ‘ballads’. These sing-along style songs are mocked here with some very morbid lyrics. He even mocks the audience in the introduction to the song who may have any designs on singing along.

“My Home Town” eliminates the sentimentality of songs about growing up in a small friendly community. Lehrer’s home town is a grotesque version of “Happyville”, typical of Fifties family TV shows. 

“The Old Dope Peddler” extends the satiric approach to singing about small towns in a sentimentally romantic way. Here the night doesn’t bring love. It brings out drug deals.

“I Got it from Agnes” says a lot without actually saying anything, but once you put the appropriate disease to the pronoun “it”, you’ve got a song about unprotected sex, STDs, bestiality, incest, homosexuality (a taboo subject in the Fifties), and fellatio. 

“The Masochism Tango” mocks the modern dance movement of the Fifties as an exercise in self-abuse. The song echoes the rhythms of a tango with the appropriately abusive description in the lyrics.

“We Will All Go Together When We Go” turns self-abuse to global-abuse as Lehrer writes a political satire to point out the futility of nuclear weapons, a common concern in the Fifties. The songwriter describes graphically the results of an A-Bomb while annihilating any hopes of surviving the big blast with bomb shelters or by ducking under one’s desk.

And there you have it. Tom Lehrer singing about severed hands, cannibalism, nuclear holocaust and racial intolerance with wit, sarcasm, and a touch of the macabre. For more on the grotesque music of Professor Lehrer, visit his site at http://www.tomlehrer.org/ for some great cover versions of his songs in other languages in addition to English or http://www.casualhacker.net/tom.lehrer/jmazner/lehrhtml.html for a thorough back-story on the singer.