“OK, Murray, here’s the gag. Reality show, OK? We get this nut job to put together four of the world’s favorite pop musicians, under the pretense he’s putting together a super-group. Then, when everything looks like it’s going great, POW! ZOK!”

The sudden burst of ebullience and wild gesticulation made the bespectacled Murray spill coffee on his pants as he jumped back in his chair. “Zok, huh?” Murray said, voice quavering.

“Yeah, POW! ZOK!” Goldstein was up on his feet, shadow boxing with his own brilliance. “See, the wacko tries to off ‘em some how… gas, bombs, electrocution, something…”

“Maybe a 16-ton weight, huh, Moe?” Murray smirked.

“Yeah! Brilliant! Brilliant!” He flashed his toothy, cigar-stained grin. “I bet that’s never been done before. So, whattayaz say, Mur, ya in or what?”

“Uh… what happens to this deranged, homicidal maniac?”

“Oh, hell, who cares, drop his ass in prison, execute him, send him to the Sears Institute for Catalog Models, whatever. We tie in with this super-group deal, sign ‘em for 3 albums, guaranteed platinum.” Moe’s eyes glazed over as his vision met the austere fluorescent tubes over his head. “Maybe even… movie deal.”

They both stared up at the fluorescent tubes as the angelic choirs proclaimed this holy concept, just at its whispered, reverent utterance. Just as abruptly, they looked at each other.

In unison, two-part harmony: “Nah.”

Goldstein gathered up the hastily scrawled pitch notes with a horselaugh, crumpling them. “Yer right, Murray. . . it’s crap!”

The two shared a belly laugh as the crumpled concept flew into the trashcan.

“OK, Mur, howzabout this? Picture it: we get all these washed up celebrities to learn how to dance, judged by sardonic, washed up dance instructors…”

~-~

Ugh. It’s been really difficult to unfold myself from that wadded-up cocktail napkin and crawl out of that filthy trashcan. I feel so funky. I still have creases in my face. Oh, wait, that’s just wrinkles. No problem, there’s more of them every day in this cell, trust me!

Yes, of course, I know you’re wondering why I’m still here in this cell instead of out enjoying Carnival on the beach in Rio. Well, actually, I prefer it. Why would I want to get out of here and take my family to Brazil anyway?

Duh.

Dear Brother Claghorn. . . faithful readers will recall his equatorial inferences from a former chapter. It turns out his personal walk with the Lord took its own interesting turns, and he no longer required my services. It’s probably just as well, since I wasn’t too keen on swimming in that particular shark tank.

But don’t let me tell you. Let’s turn it over to that Omniscience guy over there at the keyboard. You know, he’s one of those most wicked and obstinate of all creatures. . . The Writers.

Not to alarm you, but you’re in a preserve full of them right now. Shh, be calm. Just post a sign somewhere that says “Free Food And Drink” with an arrow pointing away from you. When they begin shuffling toward it, quietly walk backwards away from the text and proceed with caution well away from it. This method also works with most artists, musicians, actors, and political pundits, so you may want to make a note of it.

Brr. Gives me chills just to think of it. I may see you after a bit; right now, it’s time for exercise out in the yard and then there’s pudding. Peace.

~-~

The grating comfort of a muffled polyphonic cellphone ring tone of “Nearer, My God, To Thee” broke the eerie stillness in Florine T. Meriwether’s doublewide trailer. There was only one person in Florine’s phone who rated a specialized ringer, and she blazed into action upon hearing it.

Barking her shin on a 3-foot-tall bronze “Praying Hands” statue and lampstand, Florine dove for her handbag, madly fumbling through it for the shrilling phone. With her nimble organist’s fingers, she steadied the teetering brass lamp with her left hand as she plucked the phone from the purse with her right. She spilled a few of her Scripture Mints onto the faded brocade of her love seat as the purse tipped in her fervor.

She flicked the phone open with her thumb and forefinger, surprising herself at this small feat of agility. “Hi-low,” she said, with her deep Arkansas drawl. She knew very well who it was, but was never forward, especially with a person of his standing.

“Florine, dearest Florine, my treasured music leader. How are you on this most auspicious day?”

Florine bathed for a moment in the sunshine of recognition. “Why, Brother Claghorn, what a pleasant surprise! I do declare, you’re just a sweet as pie to call lil’ ol’ me. I’m keeping fine, just fixing to go down to the Victory Worship Center and practice a bit for Sunday’s Cantata.” She paused for a moment, then curiosity bested her Southern reserve. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today, is everything alright?”

Brother Claghorn had never taken a wife. He preached sometimes on the celibacy of the office of preacher; he might yet take a wife, should the Good Lord find him a helpmate. This had the unusual effect of Brother Claghorn receiving plenteous help with laundry, lawn care, dishes, full home-cooked meals, and so on from similarly-unattached spinsters in his congregation. Harriet Carter (“no relation,” as she was fond of saying) washed, dried, and folded Brother Claghorn’s clothes. Several of the ladies took turns bringing him meals. Old Rosie McTeague even changed the oil and spark plugs in his SUV and his lawn tractor, all out of Good Old Christian Compassion and True Donut-Viewing Optimism.

Florine, like all the others, had taken her place in that line. She, of course, had special talents and ran her choir with her wispy iron hand. She punctuated all of the Victory worship services with her mellifluous organ and piano stylings. She just knew in her heart of hearts that Brother Claghorn held a special place for her in his.

“Everything is absolutely wonderful, Florine, absolutely great. I know several months back, I had asked you to accompany me and Bobby J. Memphis on a Revival Tour throughout this fine land.” Brother Claghorn paused, recalling it was more Florine’s incidental eavesdropping than a request, but that she would help him in the long run.

“Yes, sir, and I would love to do that! I can be ready soon. I just need to figure out something to do with my cats. Maybe take them to Rosie McTeague’s for a while.” Florine did indeed have cats. A dedicated cat fancier, she had at least 7 feline tenants roaming around the doublewide at any given time.

Brother Claghorn laughed with that warm, engaging baritone laugh he had. “Whoa, now, Miss Florine, there actually has been a change of plans. However, I think you’ll like them.”

Saddened by losing a chance to travel with the dashing evangelist, yet undaunted, Florine asked, “And you still need my help?”

“Why yes, dear Florine, yes indeed. I have been asked to run for Governor, and I would like to have your help in managing Victory while I am running. If anyone I know can whip a team into shape, it’s you.”

~-~

Bobby J. Memphis set his beloved Telecaster™ guitar back into its stand. It had been two or three weeks since he’d seen the rest of Yanstebangus. Billy P. was off doing a film score. Stefano was busy getting his new line of hats together for sale on the Shop At Home Network. Giovanni, always mysterious, had muttered something about a swimming pool and either Cancun or Kankakee, but no was sure what he had actually said.

Regardless, Bobby J. was enjoying the relative peace and quiet in between supergroup touring and superhero adventuring. Most of his relatives, at least, were quiet, except for his daughter, who was just blossoming into a next-generation superstar in her own right. She was out on tour, and her mother went on the road with her. Bobby J. was able to stay home, relax, record songs, and play a few Sundays at Victory Worship Center. Brother Claghorn had made a special request of him.

He sat down at the computer and switched from his music-recording software to email. He dashed off a quick note to the rest of Yanstebangus, asking them to check their schedules and to see if they could get to Tennessee to play a fundraiser for Brother Claghorn’s gubernatorial bid.

The fundraiser would be held at Victory Worship Center because it was a venue that would hold enough people and had media equipment already in place. It also didn’t hurt that Brother Claghorn basically owned the church as well. “This will be a faith-based campaign, Bobby J,” he’d said. “I do believe I hear the Lord calling me loudly and clearly.”

~-~

The restaurant was inky dark, with low-hanging tiffany lamps. Occasionally, the orange of a cigar light brightened, surrounded by wisps of smoke, and then foul bluish clouds roiled about from behind the table, visible only in the cone of light under the lamp.

“I think you’ll be perfect for the job. Just see to it you keep taxes low and businesses open. And don’t mind the tree-huggers. What’s a few birdies when you can ride around in the Governor’s limo, hmmm?”

A fat hand with a pinky ring slid a $500 briefcase surreptitiously across the floor.

“Here’s a little bonus for ya.”

“Why, thank you sir. I do believe the Lord works in mysterious ways.” He pulled briefcase to the side of his chair and tucked it underneath. A toothy smile into the dank room.

The attentive waiter appeared. “Have you decided?”

“Filet Mignon, rare. Black and blue, just hit it a couple times and throw it on the plate,” came the gruff voice from behind the table. “Yeah, and bring me another Scotch.”

“I believe I’ll try the squab… I feel like pigeon today.” Brother Claghorn chuckled and sipped at his Beaujolais.

~-~

Florine enjoyed managing the office at Victory almost as much as she enjoyed directing the choir. Granted, the sounds the old Konica copier made were in no way as sweet as the real pipes on the church organ and the 4000-watt PA system filled with the broken-squeeze-box harmonies of the Victory Choir, but the work was edifying. She was really Doing The Work and Helping The Cause, and she knew it.

The Church Secretary, Gracie May Zing, held the phone out into the room. “Miss Florine, it’s someone checking on a résumé for Brother Claghorn’s campaign…?” She always ended her sentences as if she were asking a question, which infuriated Florine. ‘Make a statement, don’t freakin’ ask me,’ she always said to herself.

Florine nodded and picked up her extension. “Victory Worship Center, Florine T. Meriwether. Why, yes, we did receive it. Ah, no, Brother Claghorn hasn’t started scheduling interviews. He did? Why, that’s odd; he didn’t tell me. Hold on just one second, ma’am.” Florine stabbed the Hold button, exhaling deeply, and exasperatedly held the phone away from her ear for a moment. She cradled the phone on her shoulder and pulled up Brother Claghorn’s calendar on the computer.

She looked incredulously at the entry, but there it was.

She put the phone back to her ear and pressed the Hold button.

“Yes, Miss Mustly, we’ll see you in here at 1 PM tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

She hoped she left a bruise on Miss Mustly’s eardrum by dropping the phone into the cradle.

~-~

All the members of Yanstebangus had finally made it to Bobby J. Memphis’ house. They started to make a playlist for the benefit concert, trying to intersperse all of their trademark mellow sounds with a few rousing numbers to get the audience’s blood and checkbooks pumping. Bobby J. even wrote a campaign song for Brother Claghorn.

~-~

The interview was given by a panel of Brother Claghorn, Florine T. Meriwether, and Godfrey Daniels, a conservative political analyst and long-time friend of Brother Claghorn and Victory Worship Center. Daniels had been named campaign strategist.

Miss Nance Mustly did not have direct experience in managing a campaign per se, but she was able to show off her true abilities, bringing in reams of examples of documentation and cost planning. She had examples of hiring and firing letters, as well as graphs and pie charts of powerful Social Committee cartel activities. She had bound a copy of her documents in a slick binder for each of the interviewers. The page after her résumé was a spreadsheet she came up with just for the interview. It featured budget minutiae like price breaks on various quantities of Styrofoam skimmers and cost analysis by foot of red-white-and-blue bunting.

The interview was cordial, as all such events are wont to be. The panel members thanked Nance, who asked when she might expect to hear from them. Florine piped up and said, “Well, of course, we have several other people to see, but we’ll call you.”

A quizzical expression, a Mona Lisa frown, passed over Nance’s face. “That will be fine, of course,” she said, with a hint of frost to her voice. “But I do hope to hear from you soon.”

Florine smiled triumphantly.

Godfrey Daniels said nothing, but gave a forced, cursory grimace, his usual grudging smile.

Brother Claghorn, however, gave a broad smile and asserted, “You do have an impressive set of skills, Miss Mustly, and you may count on hearing from us again. We do have a few people to see, of course, but we need doers in our organization. I am certainly impressed!”

As Nance ambled to the door with the support of her sword cane, she stopped, turned, and once more said, “I’d certainly love the chance to help you win the Governor’s chair! I do hope to hear from you soon.”

The gratuitous thanks and farewells were exchanged, and Nance Mustly left the expansive, oak-paneled conference room.

“Well,” said Brother Claghorn, “what do you think?”

Godfrey Daniels said, “She’d be OK, I think, a little coaching and she’d do fine. Selling brownies and selling votes, you know, it’s not much different from selling cars or weapons.”

Florine started shaking her head “no” before she spoke, crossing her arms across her chest. She looked straight ahead into space, frowning, not looking at either of the men in the room. “I don’t like ‘er,” she dispensed, with a sharp nod to accentuate her conviction.

Daniels and Claghorn looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “She’s perfect!” said Daniels, who dodged the poisoned darts of Florine’s glare.

~-~

There were a few other interviews, but Brother Claghorn had essentially “spoken,” and they brought Nance in as the Campaign Manager, much to Florine’s consternation and dismay. She set to work on building her staff up, and getting them to work on various functions.

She had frequent meetings with Brother Claghorn and Godfrey Daniels, to which Florine was not privy. Florine sometimes would bring a tray with snacks and a pitcher of strong Southern-style sweet tea into Nance’s office during those meetings. Invariably, the campaign planners would stop, looking up with that slowly-dawning look of shifting focus, and quietly mumble thanks to Florine for her refreshing efforts. They would then go back to scrawling notes on legal pads.

“Thank you, Florine,” called Nance, with her strident, braying voice, once Florine was halfway through the threshold. It was unclear if her gratitude was for the food and drink or for Florine’s leaving the room.

~-~

Posters were soon printed up, to be posted around the state by the burgeoning team of volunteers that was being drawn from the grass roots. Much was by word of mouth, email, and calls between members of all of the True Believer churches. They were simple and understated, the persona they wished to portray for their candidate. His parents had had a sense of humor, and were big fans of radio. They had named him after Senator Beauregard Claghorn on the old Fred Allen Show. He’d shortened his given name a bit.

The motto the Claghorn camp hoped would become a catchphrase:

Go For Bo!

Unfortunately, the opposing candidate’s media folks came up with a decisively muddy smear, and put out posters that said

Careful, Mother,

Beware of Big Brother!

Buster Sturdley For Governor

All in all, it was the height of political infotainment.

~-~

It was Thursday night Choir Practice, and Florine was getting her stack of music together. She at least still had her music to fall back on. She made a few notes on the manuscript, when she noticed the door to the sanctuary opening. It was Nance Mustly.

“Hi, Florine,” came the dulcet, saccharine greeting.

“Yes?” asked Florine, impatiently.

“I was wondering if you could use another soprano in the choir. I know I heard from Louella Frakes that you had one lady leave, since she is related to Buster Sturdley and she was uncomfortable with all this election stuff.”

“Uh, yes, well, of course, you may try out. I can’t guarantee you’ll fit in with our choir. But we can try it.”

The two gave each other the superficial smiles taught to polite Southern ladies when they would like to see the recipient fall into a lion’s den.

“Well, let’s see what you are planning for the service this week. Oh, Bringing in the Sheaves! I love that one.”

She pealed forth with a strong, very passable soprano part, which even Florine could not deny. Other members of the choir had begun to shuffle in and actually applauded at the end of Nance Mustly’s ‘audition.’

“My goodness, that was very good, bless your heart,” said Florine. “Certainly, join in. We can get you fitted for a robe, I think.” She thought, “An extra large robe!”

~-~

What will happen with the Victory Choir?

Will Brother Claghorn get the nod?

And where the heck is Yanstebangus?

Mmm. Pudding. What?

Oh, I see. You weren’t expecting a cheesy tie in to a sequel, just to drag you along. Well. . . all I can say is “sorry.” Tune in again shortly when we return with the next hair-whitening episode of Yanstebangus!

To Be Continued…

Previously…