WORDCHASM

The first few Popumentaries shows went well. These first 4 shows focused on biographies of and performances by each of the stars. Each artist was a professional, and had been through television appearances before. Stefano, of course, was a natural TV studio denizen. He conferred with the director and the lighting crew with his suggestions to make shots look better.

“I don’t think it would be too bad to have a TV show every week,” quipped Bobby J. Memphis. “Might be fun if you could do it with one of your kids. I don’t know about all that dancing with it, though.”

Billy P. seemed to enjoy the biography session the most of all. Since his voice was normally a saxophone, he felt vindicated to finally be able to speak on camera. He worked well with the studio band, too.

Giovanni was not difficult to tape, per se. However, he was so mysterious that no one was sure when he would stop noodling on his synthesizer and continue an answer to interview questions. Otherwise, he and the production team got along swimmingly.

The executive producer, Shecky Merman, saw to all the details on each of the shows. He’d also written original songs for the artists to perform together on the “blending” show, as it was called.

“Ukulele Jack” Matsumoto would certainly be in on the live musical performances; he was a walk-on during Stefano’s episode. 2 artists who had missed the deadline to sign up, but responded as interested for future shows, were the strident voice of pop, Lucas Notlob, and a former associate of Giovanni’s, the King of Mellow Keyboard, Jim Fetch. “I’d be glad to focus on them, too, if we get renewed,” noted Merman with his trademark smirk.

Shecky Merman seemed to be even more hyperactive than usual during the live broadcast of the blending show. He had convinced Sheila and the other heads of Vid-I/O that the live format would work well. It would be conducive to fresh comments from the viewers.

The fears of Vid-I/O losing viewers when offering performances of “commercialoids,” as some of the acerbic Vid-I/O fans called popular stars, turned out to be unfounded. Estimated Nielsen ratings showed that Popumentaries was enjoying a 12 share: approximately 13,224,000 households were tuning in, on average. There was a waiting list to join the on-screen commentary pool, and the membership server actually crashed twice during broadcasts.

Everyone was all smiles, and champagne was chilling in strategically placed ice buckets backstage. Some of the interns had sneaked in a tub full of ice, emblazoned with the logo of a popular electrolyte-replacement drink. It was hidden under a tarpaulin, to douse Shecky at the end of the blending show.

The first song went exceptionally well. Stefano & Bobby J. had fun with the acoustic and electric guitar interplay. Billy P.’s soprano sax soared to heavenly heights, and Giovanni provided surrealistic atmosphere with ethereal, dream-inspired keyboard swells. The studio bassist, A. J. Kay, and drummer, B.W. Clarke, smiled as they glued the smooth jazz licks together.

Everyone in the studio knew they were witnessing history.

The second tune was also a grand jam, this time definitely more down-home, nearly rockabilly, to match Bobby J.’s sensibilities. It was interesting to hear the blend of smooth, smooth tenor saxophone, Billy P.’s other instrument, Giovanni’s suddenly energetic piano tones, and the full-out guitar rocking. One of the online commentators called it “3 chords and a bottle of bourbon.”

After a commercial break, Shecky Merman went on camera with the stars, suggesting they form a supergroup. He asked them to let Popumentaries broadcast their potentially—hopefully—upcoming songwriting and jam sessions.

Somewhere, the blood drained from their respective agents’ and managers’ faces. Of course, the fact that this question was to be asked of them had been covered in the contracts they’d signed. At the same time, attorneys began poring over those contracts, smelling an imminent feeding frenzy.

Merman had made certain to block the shot as he’d liked. All 4 stars were standing on a shiny line of silver tape. They’d all be on screen at the same time this way.

“We’re all glad that you have come together here on the Vid-I/O stage,” he continued. “You have all been in the spotlight in your time, and are back once again. Our suggestion, our request, is that you consider forming a super group… with a blended name, like ‘Yanstebangus!’”

An awkward silence. Undeterred, Merman plunged on. “Billy P. Your saxophone has charmed so many of your fans that they are numb to exploratory jazz. Stefano—busying yourself with pie charts and guitar sales, you have encouraged a large cadre of fans to reach for the ceiling fan instead of the stars. Bobby J. Memphis! You’ve inspired hundreds of hillbillies to give up their jobs at the Quickie Mart and choke the streets of Nashville with tattered dreams and pickup trucks. Giovanni. You, too, have anesthetized the masses with your atmospheric ramblings on the keys.”

Sheila and Roy, the head of advertising sales, stood uncomfortably on the sidelines. “I hope to hell he’s making a point here,” said Roy, in a guttural whisper.

“You and me both,” she whispered.

“But here and now, on live TV, you have come together to make a difference. To shine, collectively, in a way you haven’t in quite some time.” Merman paused for effect. “And, tonight, we want to preserve this improvement in popular culture.”

The four performers shifted nervously.

Merman brandished a small black remote control. It had an ominous red button with an LED inside it that made it glow with an angry aura in his hand. “With this button, I will now forever unite this band.”

Onlookers looked around quizzically. The stage manager and the director furiously turned pages in their shooting scripts, looking for a note on this part of the proceedings.

One of the interns, Nicole, whispered to Sheila at the edge of the stage. “The booth wants to know if we should go to commercial or music videos?”

Sheila didn’t divert her eyes from the action, but shook her head no. She hissed, “No, let’s keep this running. Be ready if I give the signal to cut, though!”

Merman shouted, “I think you’ll get a charge out of this!” He pressed the ridiculously large button.

There are moments that are tremendous… dramatic… and memorable. And then, as in this moment, the anticlimactic. Nothing seemed to have happened. “What?!” shouted the enraged Merman. “You’re all supposed to be electrocuted now!”

Casey, another helpful intern, had disengaged the wires running to the shiny silver blocking strip. It was a trip hazard, and he was conscientious. He was also still holding it. His jaw dropped as the danger of handling the high-voltage line coalesced in his mind. He dropped the line, which made contact with a microphone stand. A shower of sparks and a blue-gray cloud of smoke burst from the live end. Most everyone in the studio scattered.

“Plan B!” Merman brandished a gun. He spun around, eyes wild. “Don’t even think about it, it’s loaded!”

Of one accord, as if they had somehow suddenly found a peculiar facet of their collective destinies, the four musicians shouted one word in unison.

All together now, with feeling.

“Yanstebangus!” They sprang into action.

And, for your reading enjoyment, allow us to introduce their trademark attacks:

Billy P.’s Lullaby And Goodnight… the sonorous strains of the soprano sax started having an effect, not only on Shecky Merman alone, but everyone else in the studio as well. They all became lethargic. The song was well known for its soporific effect.

However, the most affected was Merman, as the notes were directed at him. “Not… Brahms… mustn’t… succumb…” he stammered. The gun fell harmlessly on the floor. Merman had the safety on. He was crazy, not stupid. His legs seemed mired in cold molasses… consciousness began to fade… as Billy P. used his horn as a golf club, hitting the executioner’s remote that had fallen on the floor in the excitement. It bounced off a floor monitor speaker and eagled off Merman’s forehead.

Stefano’s El-Kabong… as Merman was still reeling, a streak of ebony spruce sliced through the still-acrid electrical smoke. As the guitar’s body connected with Merman’s head, Stefano shouted “Ka-Bong!” Stefano’s homage to one of Shecky Merman’s favorite childhood cartoons added insult to the injury.

Giovanni’s Ouzo Bottle of Fury… Giovanni pulled a pint bottle of Ouzo from the bag hanging on his keyboard stand. He checked it to see that it was empty, taking a swig to be sure. He lobbed it with his left hand, grenade style. The vessel whistled past Merman’s head and shattered on a light truss just above him.

Merman shook his head, shaking off the spray of anise-scented glass and most of the two previous attacks. He laughed derisively. “Nice shot, Giovanni. Let me get the broad side of a barn in here and see how you do with that!” He wheeled around, scanning the room for any possible exit.

The others looked at Giovanni. He shrugged and said, “I’m a keyboardist, not a pitcher!” However, the spotlight he’d hit broke free of the light truss and swung down, blocking Merman’s path with its burning hot enclosure and thick power and control wire harness.

Bobby J.’s Hillbilly Haymaker. Ever practical, Bobby J. Memphis strode up to the swaggering Merman. “Enough’s enough, Bubba,” he said. The last thing Merman saw was the tattooed arm with the rapidly expanding fist.

Merman pitched backward, lost his footing, and crashed spectacularly into the hidden soft-drink tub. The melting ice sprayed out like a fountain of glass, falling back down onto Merman’s motionless form.

The four musicians looked around at each other. Each was in disbelief at what has just transpired.

“I ain’t had that much fun playin’ in a long daggone time,” noted Bobby J.

He’d said it for all of them.

They agreed (off camera, and with their respective management teams’ assent) to play together from time to time. Now was the time to enjoy their newly invigorated fame. They knew that soon, they would all enjoy new adventures, wherever their music might carry them.

The cops cuffed Merman, and led him to the door.

The crowd booed and jeered. They shouted, “Shecky Merman!”

Merman looked around the room at the crew, the interns, and the fledgling group of superheroes with a withering gaze. Acidly, he shouted, “Yeah… and I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”

Ugh. Not another Scooby Doo Ending!

~ — ~

14

It’s just incredible.

OK, so I didn’t quite get the effect desired. Who knew these washed-up, tasteless bums were actually latent superheroes waiting to burst on the scene? They cleaned up well… and, truth be told, most of the fan-people on Vid-I/O actually loved it. So much for “aloof superiority through good taste,” at least on their part. Sellouts.

Vid-I/O Membership shot up. Sponsorship shot up. Fewer buildings got shot up whenever the show was on, since it had what some called the I Love Lucy Effect: crime rate dropped while it was being televised.

So if you ever hear them bragging at one of their superhero barbeques, you tell them you know who made it happen.

Pretty typical, isn’t it? Chagrined by the popular culture, once again. Packed into a tiny can, and not even in spring water. Jailed by the masses with animated blue tuna on their collective breath. I suppose, if I should get out of here during my natural life, I should devote myself to pop art, or whittling, and not to making a difference.

Yeah. Right.

“Hey, Merman. Visitor.”

That’s Murdock. He’s one of the not-so pleasant guards. Under different circumstances, we probably wouldn’t have much to say to each other either. Fortunately, he also doesn’t stay too close: just looks disgusted and steps back into the maximum-security guardroom.

Wow. My visitor appears very well dressed, doesn’t he? “What, am I finally getting interviewed for GQ?”

A jeweled-ring encrusted hand grasps the one of the bars. A mild chuckle. “Well, sir, Mr. Merman, your reputation for quick humor precedes you.” A toothy smile. The other jeweled-ring-encrusted hand reaches through to shake mine. “My name’s Claghorn. I have a deal to propose. Bobby J. Memphis is a musician at my Victory Worship Center… you’ve probably heard of it.”

I shake my head in the negative, but he dismisses my naiveté and goes on.

“You somehow convinced Bobby J. that being on your television show was the right thing to do. I know that the Enemy Of Our Souls, the Devil, possessed you to try to send him and those other musicians to their Eternal Reward. Then, they teamed up to defeat you… and they formed a band.”

I glare at him. “And I need to be reminded of this because…?”

“Because I think you need to be met with understanding… and I can offer God’s forgiveness. Since Bobby J. Memphis has gone off to work with this e-vil “bang us” thing, he’s not there in my church, nor on my tour. And that means I have less sinners coming to be saved.”

“Uh… what does that have to do with the price of gasoline in Saudi Arabia?”

“Simple… I pay your bail… in exchange for a small favor.” His voice drops lower. “We all have a part in the Great Plan, Mr. Merman. You do, I do; Bobby J. does. You come to me to work out your forgiveness at Victory’s Heaven On Earth Ranch… during your stay, you could have a relapse… sliding back to your evil ways. You might appear to kidnap me… and you’d perhaps contact Bobby J. for the ransom. Knowing his impeccable moral character, he’d try to rescue me… and when he did, I’d explain the Good Lord’s plan to him.”

“Sounds like the Good Lord’s plan has me getting arrested on kidnapping charges while on bail. No, thanks.” I turn to face the wall, shaking my head.

“Not quite.” Claghorn moves closer to the bars. His toothy smile, a motion of the head for me to approach. His voice drops low, and I move to hear him, eyes squinting with skepticism. He produces an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I have it on good authority that the Lord’s plan for you includes a passport and tickets to Rio De Janeiro.”

Now who can argue with a divine intervention like that?

~ — ~

15

There came a day I was bought by a mysterious man with a charming English accent and a penchant for flowery cravats and dickies. I was given a shiny coat of black paint. I thought it might make me look somber or sinister, but when I took a good long look in the mirrored windows of the Englishman’s office building, I realized I looked rather elegant.

Sort of the semi truck equivalent of That Little Black Dress, I realized.

The man saw to it that I got a shiny black trailer to match me. What a wonderful accessory! I felt like I was part of something great. We would go driving through the Southern California desert, sometimes to Chicago, sometimes to other places.

Miss Bonnie worked inside the trailer. I could sense enough of it to know that it was a more like a laboratory and service center than a cargo trailer. She often worked on my systems, but I don’t believe she told anyone else she knew I was aware.

There was that nice young man with the curly hair, also. His name was Michael. He had a wonderful smile. I remember Miss Bonnie ruminating about him looking nice in a bathing suit. She never told anyone else that, either.

I still remember when Michael brought the Firebird around. We had a nice chat. The car was also aware—intentionally built that way by Miss Bonnie’s predecessor, as I came to learn. He had a superiority complex, but was he was also kind of humorous. I always called him “K2K,” which seemed to irritate him, much to my satisfaction.

I suggested his processor unit be implanted in a teacher or something. We traded barbs, as a matter of course, but I still felt protective of him and of the humans I carried. Looking back, it was sort of like a mother would feel, I suppose, guarding the denizens of her womb, if you will.

On some occasions, the driver would keep moving while Miss Bonnie extended ramps out of the back of the trailer. Michael would drive K2K into the trailer while we roared along Interstate 10.

I can’t share more of those adventures right now, to protect the innocent, but I really loved that time in my career. Now that I’m parked, deep in the Mojave, inside an air-conditioned garage, I thought it was a perfect time to share a few of my memoirs.

I’ll leave you with the words K2K used to pick on Mr. Michael after a successful mission: “Isn’t this worth the Hassle, Hoff?”

I don’t know why it made him roll his eyes.

WATCH FOR THE
NEXT ADVENTURE
OF
YANSTEBANGUS

YANSTEBANGUS
AGAINST THE
WORLD CRIME LEAGUE

~ — ~

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