It's commonplace for one to receive gifts on their birthdays, but Geminis are different breeds. For all the readers who have aided in the success of The Authors Speak (and my personal writing career), I'm offering you a chance to do what you do best - read! Karaoke Death Squad will be coming out later this year. I think you'll like it and, biased as my opinion will be, it will be a must read this year. Hilarious, touching, and sure to entertain.
S.G. Browne, author of the bestselling BREATHERS and FATED says:
Mays belts out his prose with the swagger of Mick Jagger, taking you on a narrative odyssey that includes a reluctant hero, a trio of dangerous sirens, and karaoke roulette. Fun and imaginative, Karaoke Death Squad hits all the right notes.
And, Greg Hall, author of AT THE END OF CHURCH STREET and the host of the Funky Werepig says:
You’ve been having the same old sex with the same old girlfriends in the same old town. Then one night a Russian gymnast with a tongue piercing and five pairs of edible underwear introduces you to the Kama Sutra. That’s what reading Eric Mays’ work is like. You wake up the next morning giggling and you walk funny for a week.
So, enjoy the first chapter.
1.
If anyone ever shoves a gun in your face (or knife, or chainsaw, or weed whacker, or any weapon of mass destruction) and asks if you have any last words, a word of caution: it’s harder to come up with last words under pressure like that. It’s harder still when you have a piece of rebar impaling one side of your body, puncturing your left lung, leaving little huffs and puffs that sound like slippery farts.
Max Baer’s last words were, supposedly, “Oh God, here I go…”
Marie Antoinette’s were far more eloquent, albeit fucking French: “Farewell my children, forever. I go to your Father.”
John F. Kennedy’s were appropriate and slightly ironic. When he arrived in Dallas, he was reported to have said, “If someone is going to kill me, they will kill me.” I’m sure Jackie was proud.
And, my personal favorite is from Pancho Villa. “Please don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” Honesty is always a grand policy.
Welcome to my third most valuable skill: Odie’s Infinite Database of Useless Facts.
Even with Pancho leaving a “fill-in-the-blank” sort of legacy, all of them were far more eloquent than my twenty-first century mind would allow. And, were I capable of that eloquence, none of them had rebar puncturing a lung. It’s hard to concentrate on composing your last words when you hear a sucking sound from your chest with every breath.
Instead of coming up with something esoteric, a sentence that described my legacy, I shuffled through my cerebral jukebox. That thing was stuffed full of every karaoke song I’d sung and every song I’d ever heard butchered (sadly, once I had heard a song butchered I could never hear it any other way, ever). It would be appropriate for a karaoke ace to go out with a song, rather than some trivial line that would serve as nothing more than a Trivial Pursuit answer.
I could sing Sinatra’s “My Way”, if it weren’t so cliché for the situation.
There’s Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive”, which is way too overdone, and the only way I can remember it is in the drunken warbling of a three-hundred pound redneck.
“Stop wasting your time, Natasha,” the Russian girl with the axe said. “This pig’s not coming up with any last words. He’s just stalling.”
There were women flanking me. Normally I’d love that I was surrounded by women – a rarity, to say the least. However, I preferred my women to have a little more cushion, a little less attitude, and no weapons. This crew looked like they just stepped out of a Mary Kate and Ashley cloning machine. They all pretty much wore the same thing, just in different colors: scraps of clothing that covered the strategic zones, high heeled leather boots, and glow-in-the-dark scrunchies. At least they understood the value of keeping viscera out of their locks when going on a killing spree.
Katya, the skank holding the axe, had thick black eyeliner that made her look like an anorexic raccoon. Her chosen color was pink.
Natasha was the one that held the gun to my temple. I didn’t know what kind of gun it was, ‘cause I couldn’t see it. Even if I could see it, though, I wouldn’t know the slightest thing about it. I’m not too good with guns. I just knew the sound they made and, now, the way they feel when pressed against your head. Natasha’s hair was raven-black and she’d opted for pale green.
She pushed the gun barrel into my forehead birthing a tiny migraine within my skull. “That true, little piggy? Are you just messing with us?”
I opened my mouth to answer and nothing came out. My saliva had long disappeared and it seemed I was incapable of speech. “Water?”
“Pathetic last words,” said the bitch in blue. I think her name was Natalia.
“Not last words,” I wheezed. “I need water.”
“Get him water,” Natasha ordered. I heard her finger flicking the trigger of the pistol, the springs within the pistol’s body boinging. Or else I was imagining that.
“Natasha!” Katya protested.
“Water!” Natasha answered.
Apparently we had stooped to one word conversations. Fine by me. It would make my final words that much better.
It was only appropriate that my last words were a musical number. It was only right that I left this mortal plain in a Les Mis sort of fashion. Which left the big question: What to sing?
Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” popped into my mind. Once upon a time I was falling in love, and now I do only seem to be falling apart. Still this seemed an inappropriate exeunt.
Maybe “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by the Blue Oyster Cult. Somehow, though, it’s hard to find an upside to death when you’re surrounded by killer models that look as if their diet consists of Smirnoff and sperm.
Katya shoved a pint glass filled with water into my hand. It spilled over the rim of the glass and splashed on my wrist. I instantly felt that she’d filled it with warm water. What a totally heartless bitch! Still, warm water was better than no water when you were bleeding out – just an FYI should you ever find yourself bleeding out and in a similar situation.
I wasted no time sipping the warm contents. It wasn’t as good as a tall glass of ice water, but it sure beat a tall glass of shut the fuck up. I took my time with the water, praying that their insatiable desire for death and destruction would wane. I also took that time to race through my cerebral juke, hoping to finger that perfect number and praying that my one operable lung would work with me. Nothing seemed to be appropriate, though.
Karaoke is kind of like life in many respects. If you made a mistake (or a poor song choice) you learn from it and always had a do-over. In this little scenario there would be no do-over. The choice of the song was uber-important and the only
“Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, perhaps? I wasn’t a fan of Dylan or Axel and I was certainly positive that I could not hold a Dylan-esque or Axel Rose-esque warble for very long while struggling to suck air.
“Stairway to Heaven”? This was a clichéd choice, but held so much potential. After all, I’d been known to smack the person who requested to sing this song on karaoke night. If you were an attention hog and felt the need to sing a ten minute ditty, for the love of Christ, sing something upbeat. Though, in this situation, I was thinking a ten minute ditty could buy me a little time.
Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” would be a nice touch. It was too much of a downer, though. Even though my demise was depressing (to me anyway), my inner showboat would not allow me to go out on a downer.
Then it slapped me in the head like a raw fish. The choice was perfectly clear! It was a long enough tune and it was the perfect showstopper: Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell”. It would be difficult to belt the higher notes with a punctured lung, but I was confident I could hold it together long enough to rock it.
“I want to sing,” I wheezed.
“Little piggy,” Natasha said, “are those your last words?”
“No. I want to sing a song. Y’know, my final number. Seems appropriate, eh?”
“Natasha!” Katya protested again. She really was impatient.
Natasha said nothing in response. I could still hear her flicking the trigger, still hoping she wouldn’t tighten that grip just yet. There was no hope for performing Meat Loaf’s immortal classic with most of my brain decorating the interior.
I tried again: “We all met while doing the ‘oke. Let me have one final number. I’ve earned that.”
“Natasha,” Katya tries once again.
“Okay,” said Natasha, stopping the flicking for a moment. “I’ll humor you, piggy.”
Natasha drove the gun barrel into my head like a jackhammer. At a glance you would never guess that she was that strong. Feeling what I was feeling, I was certain she could take down three body builders and a pack of ravenous hyenas with the slightest flick of the wrist. Oh yeah, I forgot. She could. I’d seen it. It was one of the upsides to being a demon.
“No funny business,” she said.
“None,” I responded.
“Natasha, I cannot believe you are going to…”
Whatever lament was pouring out of Katya’s mouth was cut short by the blast of the pistol in Natasha’s hand. The smell of cordite filled my nostrils and I found my ears ringing. I shot a glance over to Katya and saw a hole in her right shoulder. It was a macabre vision, but I knew that she wasn’t seriously wounded.
Natasha began shouting at her comrade. It was a language I’d heard them use, but it was not of this world. I wasn’t sure what she was saying, but it sounded as if Katya’s ass was being handed to her.
Once the shouting subsided, Natasha was kind enough to turn on the soundboard and wheel out the karaoke monitor for me. She hurled a karaoke binder at my feet and I wasted no time flipping to the “M” section. The track was labeled B-1145. I got to my feet and inserted the correct CD into the system.
It was time to rock.
The music started. I knew there was a one minute and fifty-two second bitchin’ interlude, so I allowed my mind to wander a bit. How the hell had life gotten so far out of control? Never in a million years would I have thought that karaoke would result in my demise.
“No funny business,” Natasha repeated over the sharp piano and guitar riffs blasting from the speakers.
“No ma’am.” I nodded and sucked air the best I could. There was no time to pontificate on the possible implosion of my chest cavity. It would have to wait. I raised the microphone to my lips, all second nature like.
“The fires are screaming and winds are howling, way down in the valley tonight!”
There was a real challenge to wailing Meat Loaf. It required an operatic oeuvre that most guys lacked. It also required the ability to hold those highs for such a stretch of time. And, as with all karaoke, you had to respect the beauty of the song.
It becomes decidedly more challenging with a punctured lung.
If money were on the line, I should have earned the motherload.
Instinct took over and I hurled my two-hundred-forty pound frame onto a nearby table, landing as agile as ever. Who cared if it was my last song – the last karaoke song I’d ever sing. You had to sell it. It’s all about the showmanship.
“Oh, baby you’re the only thing in this whole world that’s pure, and good, and right. And wherever you are and wherever go, there’s always some light…”
I got low to finish the stanza, then leapt straight into the air and landed right in front of Natasha, nose to nose. I stared into those flawless gems that were her eyes and: “Like a bat out of hell I’ll be gone when the morning comes!”
Believe. You have to believe the words. And as I let them flow, I stopped thinking about the oncoming chaos. I didn’t care that my end was nigh. I wasn’t concerned with the slaughter that had fallen over my city.
It was only here and now. I only cared about the next five minutes. I only cared about the music.
It’s a powerful thing, and it instantly transported me to a time when…
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