Saturday, 6 November 2010

A Spooky Story... (Part Two)

Please read Part One first.

It was close to midnight, and something evil was lurking in the dark.

Not Michael Jackson. A Bucket Wizard.

Luckily, we were prepared. The traps were set. The time was right. It may have been coming up to the most occult time of year, but the forces of evil were about to go running back to their mothers in hell.

We'd spotted the wizard some fifteen minutes ago, standing in the street, watching the house, surrounded by a legion of his child zombies. Heaven knows why he had his mind set on us as his prizes. Perhaps he chose this house at random. Perhaps he was drawn to it by a mix a mixture of Jake's technical skills, Mark's brains, and my rugged good looks?

Yeah, it was probably chosen at random. Based on reading up in Jake's Bumper Occult Grimmoire, the Bucket Wizard would strike at midnight - and, for the second time on this blog, I'm compelled to say that that's the sentence most like spy code I have ever typed. Jake had his guitar clasped in hand. I was seated at the keys. Mark gripped the microphone so tight, his knuckles went white. We were going to fight the abomination to this world, the spawn of Satan, with the greatest gift God had given us. The foundation for the very best of all cities. Rock and Roll. And, as the hands on the clock reached 23:59, it had never been more vital to play music with such crystal clarity, such simple, beautiful perfection, that God himself would weep tears of utter joy. The sweet music would repel the wizard, and then we could initiate phase two of the plan, also known as 'hit him with a spade till he stops moving.'

"We're all settled on the song, yes?" Mark was checking me and Jake, who couldn't always be counted on to be playing either the same song, in the same key, the same chords, or at the same time.
"It's fine Mark, we've run thr- good God, here he comes."

The clock struck midnight. The wizard slowly and demurely crossed the road, his minions trailing in his wake. He mounted the steps, and reached for the door. He never got to open it: by the time he touched the handle, the door had been blown off it's hinges by a riff of such strength and power, it seemed the very earth was playing with us, in perfect unison with both guitar and keyboard. As the strains of that opening riff died away, I caught Mark's eye.

"Let's rock this joint."

And at that, he drew a deep breath, and sang. He sang like he'd never sung before: a tortured angel singing the blues in a smoky bar. Every phrase was injected with it's fullest meaning, and forced through his lips, to create a heartbreaking, melodious song. It brought a tear to my eye, and a tremble to my lip. For the first time in my life, I felt those words. I understood the true meaning of the song: a darkly ironic tale of two desperate lovers, forced together by a life of shallow materialism, where everything seems fake.

The words he sang were these:

"I'm a barbie girl
In a barbie world.
Life in plastic
It's fantastic..."

On the third line, Jake and I rejoined him, a triumphant, crashing chord. This was the pure joy of music making. This song, at this time, was perfection itself. If anything could defeat the Bucket Wizard, it was this.

Yet there he stood, unruffled, looking us dead in the eye. Around him, his zombie children stood, waiting only for his word to attack. As we saw him standing there, the music ground to a halt. This was not going according to plan.

Then, as the last echoes bounced off the street, he spoke, in a voice filled with evil and corruption. "You really think you can defeat me with such music?"

Jake was the first to gain courage to speak. "Back, foul demon, to the pits of hell that spawned you!"

"Oh, really, cut the melodrama. Besides, why would that song be particularly effective against me, the pinnacle of evil?" He grinned, and his teeth suddenly seemed incredibly pointed. "After all, I wrote it. Besides, I've had enough of your so called music." At this, he turned to address the ranks of child zombies surrounding him. "Kill them."

At once, a solid wall of the dead, four foot high and wielding buckets began, slowly and excruciatingly, to move towards us. I have to admit, I was panicking. I thought this was the end. But Jake, thank God, wasn't as easily defeated. In a hushed voice, he spoke to us.

"Guys, I have a plan. We're going to have to appeal to the one human part left of their brains, and stop them attacking us. There's only one thing for it. Only one song for the job." And he named it, to our horror.

"I hate that song!"
"Jake, do you really think this is the time?"
"Look, guys, just play it! What else can we do?"

And so, facing an eternity with our souls enslaved to a man who had just claimed to write Barbie Girl, we took up our instruments, and began to play.


No comments:

Post a Comment