The bible remains neutral, in its natural state, as if it—too—waits for December 2031. Georgia can’t help but think of The Monkey’s Paw and some grotesque thing scratching and pawing at the other side of her locked door. KC stops barking at the bible as if he knows it has crawled back into its ancient shroud. He grows past puppy stage, and he’s ever eager to please both mother and daughter to no end.
The Wraithfire begins coughing. It begins sputtering. Just when Georgia least expects it, the thing finally dies. A garage tells her the engine is worn out, and she should look for another vehicle—more dependable.
“Just when I get the bills I have paid, a new one pops up!”
The television announces another random shooting at a downtown burger house.
Georgia shakes her head and exclaims, “What is this world coming to?”
KC looks up at his master with deep set, chocolate eyes.
Cledus meets with his band. They are blown away by the increased range of his voice. All their mouths drop open at the return of their leader. They begin to salivate at the prospect of cutting a new album and eventually heading back out on a world tour. Sammy’s new and improved voice inspires other band members to play long, hard, and hone songs to artistic perfection. Halfway through the first song, the drummer leaps up and raises both drumsticks to the heavens in tribute. When the carved pieces of wood come down, they do so with speed, force, and rhythmic power.
“Bloody perfect!” The lead guitarist mouths, before he is usurped by another band member wielding a steel guitar.
Sammy looks at his sheet music and sings, “Who needs tomorrow…Let’s create a hell of a day…Bab—e’.”
The guitar accompanies the words like guitar and singer are ballroom dancing.
“Take my hand…Be my mistress for now and a day.”
They all smile and can’t help but picture ladies in the crowd emptying their rock t-shirts. Or other prospects coming to appraise them with desire filled, lustful young eyes. Street Posse plays again. The group’s vanity makes them wonder. Will we be better than ever?
Cledus holds a different kind of confident swagger; a swagger that fits a deeply compelling singing voice. He holds a small bottle of River Rock in his left hand, temporarily. A long-perfected smile lights up his (now) famous face. The guy on the mixer uses prerecorded voices to fill the studio with reverberating chants of “Moore! Moore! Moore!”
All eyes fixate on Cledus, as if he is their personal savior.
“Bring on grubby wenches!” The drummer shouts.
“I need a drink,” claims the parched guitarist.
The new Sammy Moore says, “Tafter we’ve mixed a drubbing of good songs.”
He is answered by supporting chants of, “Moore! Moore!” Until the room becomes deafening. Then, the drummer adds, “Let’s mix some more!”
Street Posse works long into the night inside their private recording studio. Several groups of highly decorated young women wait outside the guarded door; several women anxiously await their shot at a few minutes of fame, and to boldly go where they’ve never gone before.
“Street Posse rules!” One of the blonde’s shouts, as if it will whisk her away to the rock god’s private dressing room.
“What if they want us in groups? Who is uncomfortable with an orgy?” An overly busty woman asks.
One brunette makes a face reflecting ethical concern.
“We just want to know who we can count on,” adds the blonde.
One woman touches another as an initiation, the other woman’s head flies back, and the remaining women look at a recording light continually illuminated outside the closed door.
Georgia stands in the shower listening to a waterproof radio. She pushes back long and wet hair with both of her hands. Cascading water descends upon her and mixes with Dove Soap. Some of her thick blonde hair frees itself and falls to the enclosed tub floor. Street Posse’s greatest hit fills the shower stall, gets her heart pumping, warms her loins, and keeps her from leaving the confines of the shower.
A slight crackle in the radio signifies a station has dropped its signal, the batteries are going dead, or a sudden wind gust has diverted the message. When the radio re-stabilizes, Georgia hears a familiar voice. Buck naked, and somewhat cold, the voice sends an added chill through her bones.
Lucky chuckles first, followed by lewd comments on her round hips and smooth gleaming skin.
“No…Just yur compadre, Lucky.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To shows ye the proper trace.”
“Who died and made you God?”
“Hey—Missy, yu seed no face in the future.”
“And, you do?” Georgia plunges her gleaming locks underneath the shower head, and quickly adds, “Are you saying I will need you, Lucky?”
“Have a min to beat the Dutch across lots by yur own hook, when da time comes.”
Georgia tries to tune Lucky back into frequency again, but he quickly cuts out. Instead, Van Halen fills the small speaker with their Cabo Wabo. Georgia dances to the funky tune, surprised at her calm, playful reaction, because, for the first time, Lucky no longer fills her with supernatural fright.
In the end, the woman knows the old geezer is looking out for her, although his spittle has yet to be proven. She knows what Lucky tells her is true and that she will need him when the time comes. None of it eases the sudden interruption of electronic airways, something Georgia will need to get use to or go off the deep end. I think losing my mind will dilute my potential, because the ancient tome desperately needs me to stay sane.
Larry sifts through the Spotlight Section of the newspaper. He reads an article on Sammy Moore’s newfound success. The article further explains that Omar Redding (a.k.a.) Sammy Moore, is forty-three, dating a young British Model, and—once again—is at the top of the rock scene.
Larry feels quite stupid. He thinks…No wonder the man wore a disguise the day they followed him on a grocery shop. The threat becomes more logical, now. Omar Redding is famous. Inevitably, more than one stalker or groupie often follows Sammy Moore around. Whatever the threat, they hadn’t gotten to him—just yet. Larry thinks he will keep close tabs on the icon. He will learn a great deal about the man’s habits, his eccentricities, and his personal failings. Larry has no real reason to question the man’s DNA.
He finally gets the courage to ask out his assistant.
Marla returns, “I thought you’d never ask.”
A sexy smile gives some of her real intentions away.
“Dinner and a movie sound too serious?”
“Only if we think so.” Marla plays with her hair and adds, “Seriousness is all in the attitude, not the event.”
Larry loves the response from his conquest; he thinks most women take him way too seriously, because he is a recovering alcoholic. He is a man who can’t go there anymore. He also loves how Marla takes care of her body without surgery or Liposuction of body fat. He thinks Marla’s curves represent weight body sculpting at its finest. Only time will tell if they can form a love connection.