A Contact Mike and a Resounding Board
“They’re
the hottest band in town!” Gopig enthused.
“The hottest,”
Needsadrill repeated in that devastating tone he had developed, indicating just
how stupid he thought Gopig’s attestation was.
The other in the room, a rough half-dozen would-be youths dressed in
German approximations of cowboy costumes and waffle-cut acrylic capes, however,
agreed with both Gopig’s enthusiasm and his choice of adjective.
“We’ve seen
them called that in the local free music publication,” Weeza (a titty possessor
by training) explained, not wanting to see a fight break out.
“Well, who are
these hot, hot fellows?” Needsadrill demanded with the scalpel blade in his
Swiss army knife of sarcasm.
“They’re
called The Disappointing Pancakes,” Tetsu Androdoyama invoked the name from the
depths of his still-sharecropper-stiff overalls.
“Why are
you wearing overalls?” a passerby wondered.
He didn’t catch the answer as Blotchem Hedgebag, pushing him along on a
wheeled pompadour, kept on pushing him along so that the window in which the
passerby had glimpsed Tetsu was now far behind them. The passerby chewed on his plastic beaded
necklace in a dither of anxiety as he watched the window grow smaller and
dimmer, the scent of pancakes superceded by a willful demand for that pancake
smell to stay with him.
By securing
the college vote the band members had earned a place in the president elect’s
administration. Their manager explained
that “pot makes you vote Democrat.”
.
