Bookshelf Battle

Inside her dressing room, Boo Boo Larue sat in front of a mirror, putting her face on.  She looked amazing even without makeup but with it, she dazzled.  She did her best to focus, but Boogiedown Barry, who was sitting on an old leather couch, was distracting her with his constant, non-stop prattling about his latest obsession – one Mr. Disco Werewolf.

“Did you see the way he moved last night?”

“It was quite special.”

“Special?” Barry asked.  “That guy was solid.  Totally solid.  Solid as a rock.  He was all up in a stone-cold groove, getting his freak on like freaks were about to go out of style.  I’m telling you Boo Boo baby, this cat is all kinds of happening.  He’s the got it all.  He’s got the razzle.  He’s got the dazzle and dare I say it?”

“Panache?” Boo Boo asked.

Barry pointed at the songstress as she applied some eyeliner.  “Panache!  That’s it, baby.  The guy’s got panache.  Some dancers have got panache.  Some don’t.  Some try to make up for a lack of panache but there’s no way to fix your panache if it’s broken.  You just have to have a natural level of panache and this cat’s got it in spades, baby.”

“I’m ust happy to see you happy, dear.”

Barry stood up and moved behind the luscious lady.  He knelt down and looked at her reflection in the mirror.  Boo Boo would have looked at Barry’s reflection, but he didn’t cast one.

“This is it,” Barry said.

“You think so?” Boo Boo asked.

“I know so,” Barry answered.  “Why?  You don’t?”

Boo Boo applied some red lipstick, then pressed her lips together.  “I don’t know.  He’s quite extraordinary, I’ll give you that but…”

“Past dancing sensations have failed me before,” Barry said.  “I know.”

“I just don’t want to see you get your hopes up only for them to be dashed again, darling,” Boo Boo said.

“Did you see him?” Barry asked.  “I mean, I know you saw him, baby, but did you truly study him?  I did.  The dog matched my feet move for move and no one’s ever been able to do that before.  Plus he can do tricks that no human can do and I know baby, I’m not going to count my chickens before they’re hatched but…”

Boo Boo sighed.  “…you want him.”

“I’ve gotta have him, baby,” Barry said.  “Not just for me but…for us.”

An interruption.  One of the Starlight Crew’s lowly roadies stepped in, holding a champagne glass filled with pink candies.  “Good evening Miss Larue.  I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You are,” Boo Boo said as she concentrated on her face in the mirror.  “But go on.  Out with it, peasant.

Barry stood and stepped back.  The roadie set the glass down on Boo Boo’s table.  “Here you are, Miss Larue.  A champagne glass filled with exactly 98 pink chocolate candies.  Just as you asked.

“Thank you, Jeffrey, you are an angle but…oh my.”

“What?” Jeffrey asked.  “Is something wrong?”

Boo Boo pointed to the top of the glass, where one errant yellow candy sat on top a sea of pink.

“Oh no,” Jeffrey said as he picked up the glass.  “Miss Larue, I’m so terribly sorry.”

Boo Boo shook her head.  “A road crew’s job is to take care of all the little details so that the performers can concentrate on their performance, Jeffrey.”

“You’re absolutely right, ma’am,” Jeffrey said.

Barry interrupted.  “Honestly, kid, if it had been me and the hottest babe on the disco scene had asked me to bring her a champagne glass filled with 98 pink candies, I would have gone through that glass with a fine tooth comb, making damn well sure there weren’t any yellow candies, or blue candies or green or red or purple or…”

“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Jeffrey said.  “Here, I’ll just…”  Jeffrey used his thumb and pointer finger to pluck the one yellow candy out of the glass.  “There we go.  Problem solved.”

Barry and Boo Boo each made a face as though they were staring at a most horrid abomination.

“Ugh!” Boo Boo said.

“You’re disgusting,” Barry added.  “Do you have any idea who this woman is, kid?  This is Music Beat’s Singer of the Year, three years running.  She’s put out two albums and they both went platinum.  Where do you get off, putting your…”

Boo Boo cut Barry off.  She swiveled around in her chair and looked up at the roadie.  “Jeffrey, darling, you must replace the entire glass immediately.”

“But…um,” Jeffrey said.  “It’s fine now.  See?  All fixed.”

“It’s not fixed, Jeffrey!”  Boo Boo snapped.  “I don’t have any idea where your putrid fingers have been, what orifices you’ve scratched them with, how long they have spent in recent hours extended into your nasal passages or betwixt your buttocks and for all I know, your hands could be crawling with untold amounts of germs.”

Barry grabbed the roady by the shirt collar.  “She gets sick and she’s out for a week, schmucko.  She has to cancel appearances.  She has to give back her dough and her fans get disappointed.  All because of your incompetence.”

Sweat beads formed on Jeffrey’s brow.  “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You should be,” Barry said as he released the twerp.

Boo Boo took a different tact.  Her tone became gentle and loving.  “Jeffrey, darling, this isn’t that difficult a task.  Just run along and fix it.”

“You mean…”

“Must I spell it out for you?” Boo Boo asked.  “Ugh!  I am surrounded by imbeciles, just disgusting, babbling shaved baboons, the lot of you!  Fine, I’ll do it myself!”

“See that, punk?”  Barry said.  “You’ve upset her.”

“No,” Jeffrey said.  “I’m sorry, Miss Larue.  How can I make this better?”

“Go out,” Boo Boo said.  “Buy another bag of candies.  Separate out 98 pink ones and this time, Jeffrey darling, make absolutely sure that there are exactly 98 pink candies inside a different champagne glass.  Ninety-eight pink, no more, no less.”

“And God help you if there’s one of any other color,” Barry said.

Jeffrey’s eyes welled up as though he were about to cry.

“Oh, poop,” Boo Boo said, sweetly.  “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Jeffrey said as he fought back the tears.  “I don’t want to say no to you but it’s just that the teamster boss told me to be back in five minutes to help him set up the lights and…”

Barry pointed to Boo Boo.  “She’s your boss, numbskull.  When it comes to bosses, they don’t get any higher.”

Jeffrey was openly crying now.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

Boo Boo glared at Barry.  “That was too much, brute.”

Barry threw up his hands and sat down on the couch.  “Hey, you’re the belle of the ball and it’s your call, doll.”

The singer stood up, wrapped her arms around Jeffrey and pulled him in close.  She ran her dainty hand up and down the back of his head.  The smell of her perfume calmed him.

“Shh,” Boo Boo said.  “Hush now, child.”

“OK,” Jeffrey said.

“Sheesh,” Barry said.  “They don’t make men like they used to.”

“Hush now, Barry,” Boo Boo said before turning her attention back to Jeffrey.  “Tell me, what is it that bothers you so?”

“It’s just…”  Boo Boo released Jeffrey.  The roadie sniffed and wiped his eyes.  “…you know.  My old man told me I was an idiot for moving to New York and trying to make a go of it in music and every time I screw up I hear him telling me how stupid I am.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe I should have just become a landscaper like my brother, Doug.”

“Oh my,” Boo Boo said.  “That sounds like a dreadful job, darling.  Why, it sounds to me as though your brother, Douglas, has not one sliver of imagination in his entire body.  You, however, have it in droves, I can tell.  I think your decision to work in music was inspired.”

“You think so?” Jeffrey asked.

Boo Boo reached out and rested her palm on the back of Jeffrey’s head.  “I know so, love.  In fact, the next time you see your father, you’ll be able to tell him that Boo Boo Larue gave you a personal, live performance right in her dressing room.”

Jeffrey’s eyes grew wide.  “I will?”

Boo Boo took a deep breath, exhaled, then locked eyes with the roady and sang:

Lover!  I never thought I’d love again.

              ‘Till I met you, my friend.

              You’re the best lover that I ever knew.

              Woo, ah-ooo.

              Jeffrey became lost in Boo Boo’s eyes.  He descended in a deep, all-consuming trance, as if he and Boo Boo were the only two people left in the world and nothing around him mattered.

And when, the cold winds blow in from the sea,

              I know just where you’ll be,

              Standing right next to me.

             

              The roady’s eyes changed.  His pupils disappeared and his eyes went completely white and blank, devoid of any color.

“I’ll do anything for you, Boo Boo,” Jeffrey said in a dazed monotone.  “Please, tell me what to do.”

“Right then,” Boo Boo said.  “Be a lamb and repent for your mistake by killing yourself, will you, Jeffrey dear?”

Like a brainless zombie, Jeffrey marched over to the table and picked up the champagne glass.  “Of course, Boo Boo.  Anything for you.”

Jeffrey smashed the glass down on the table, sending broken shards and pieces of candy flying everywhere.  He then took the jagged end of the glass and without so much as uttering the slightest cry or showing even a bit of pain, rammed it deep into his neck, sending a spray of crimson blood throughout the room.

The roady’s lifeless corpse fell to the floor with a thump.

Barry winced as he looked at the red blood and red pieces of glass and candy that had been scattered all over his once clean shirt.  “Boo Boo baby.”

“Yes, love?” Boo Boo asked, her once white dress now splattered with red drops.

“Just for future reference,” Barry said.  “You’ve got to be detailed with these mooks.  Tell them to kill themselves outside, or at least on top of an old tarp or something.”

“Quite right,” Boo Boo said as she looked at her ruined dress.  “Oh, all this red will never come out of white.  Looks like this outfit’s a goner.”

Another plucky young roadie entered the room.  “Miss Larue, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you’re wanted on set for a sound check and…OH MY GOD!”

The new roadie leaned over the dead body.  “Jeffrey!  Are you ok?  It’s me, Sam!  Speak to me!”

“He’s gone, Sam.”

“No!” Sam said.  “What happened?  Did anyone see who did it?”

Boo Boo laid her hand on Sam.  “Everything’s fine, Sam.  Just relax.”

“Fine?”  Sam asked.  “We’ve got to call the cops.  The killer’s getting away!”

Boo Boo grew impatient.  She grabbed Sam around the back of the head and locked eyes with him but this time, simply sung complete gibberish to the tune of Another Lover:

La la la, hmm hmm hmm.

              Doo dee doo dee doo my friend.

              Something something, something else.

              Sam’s eyes went blank.  Boo Boo kept singing:

 

Lover, blah blah blah blah, so on and so forth.

              Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,

              La la la, la la, la la.

 

              The new roady was in a trance.  “I’ll do anything for you, Boo Boo.  Please, tell me what to do.”

“Clean this room up,” Boo Boo said.

“Be specific,” Barry noted.

“In its entirety,” Boo Boo said.  “Clean every inch, from top to bottom, and do not leave a single scrap of evidence of Jeffrey’s most untimely demise behind.”

“I’ll get right on that, Boo Boo,” Sam said as he dropped to his knees and began picking bloody candies out of the carpet.

“And?”  Barry said.

“And don’t leave this room until it is back to normal,” Boo Boo said.

“It will be done, Boo Boo,” Sam said.

“Dispose of the body,” Boo Boo said.  “Throw it in the river.”

“Yes, Boo Boo,” Sam said.  “I will.”

“And?” Barry said.

“What ‘and?’” Boo Boo asked.

“Loose ends,” Barry said.

“Oh, right,” Boo Boo said.  “And then return to your apartment, write a note indicating that you and Jeffrey had been gay lovers for several months but when you learned he had eyes for another, you couldn’t take it and in a wild rage you killed him.  In a panic, you dumped the body but now you are so riddled with remorse that you must end your own life.  Sign the note and then, oh, I don’t know, hang yourself I suppose.”

“It will be done, Boo Boo,” Sam said.

Boo Boo took a seat on the couch next to Barry.  He wrapped his arm around her.  She cuddled up to his chest.  They spoke openly about their evil ambitions, uncaring of the dutiful slave in the room, regarding him as one might a brainless pet.

“Now then,” Boo Boo said.  “Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“The werewolf,” Barry said.  “We need him.”

“You mean you need him,” Boo Boo said.  “Once you have your queen you’ll have no more use for me.”

Barry kissed the top of Boo Boo’s head.  “Who are you kidding?  I’ll always have another use for you, baby.”

Boo Boo looked at her lover, aghast at his poor choice of words.

“You know what I mean,” Barry said.

“Something tells me that Lillith isn’t the type of girl that enjoys a good menage a trois,” Boo Boo said.

“Lilith isn’t exactly in a position to argue,” Barry said.  “It’s going to be my way or the highway, this time.  Me.  I’m the one running the show and if dear old Dad doesn’t like it, he and the floozy he sent to keep tabs on me can hit the bricks.”

“But there will be certain expectations,” Boo Boo said.

Barry rested his hand under Boo Boo’s chin, lifting her head up so he could look into her eyes.  “Aurelia.  Baby.  Come on.  I’d no sooner marry that fire breathing bitch than I would a cold, dead fish, capiche?  It’s you and me against the world, baby, forever and ever.”

“Mmm,” Boo Boo said as she laid her head back down on Barry’s chest.  “Dearest, here’s a thought.  Why don’t we just let things be as they are?”

“What?” Barry asked.  “And give up ruling the world?”

“Is the ruling the world all that it’s cracked up to be?” Boo Boo asked.  “Countless men throughout the ages have tried their best to run it or at least parts of it throughout the ages and as far as I can see, no one has been able to do anything good with any of it.  It’s a thankless job.”

“It’s mine by right,” Barry said as he reached down to his chest.  He flipped over his medallion to reveal the serpent that had been etched into it.

“We already have lovely jobs,” Boo Boo said.  “I sing and make merry for lonely fools who like to pretend I love them.  It’s so much easier to be a siren in this age, darling.  You don’t have to lie in wait on the rocks all day, waiting for grimy old sailors to come your way.  In fact, the people pay to come see you.  And you, well, you do whatever you do.  Enjoy your memories of your disco dancing glory before Disco Werewolf swept in and stole it all out from underneath you.”

“Aurellia…”

“Boo Boo, darling.  I much prefer it.”

“Fine,” Barry said.  “You know I can’t let this go.  I’ve been working on it for a thousand years.”

Boo Boo sighed.  “I know.  It’s just sometimes dreams can pan out to be failures for so long that one is left to wonder whether a new dream is in order.  One that allows for the status quo to continue so I can sing in London, Paris and Milan.  I won’t be able to sing if you burn down London, Paris and Milan, darling.”

“You’ll still sing, babe,” Barry said. “Just not in joints as classy, but you’ll still sing.”

“Pish, posh,” Boo Boo said as she pressed out her lips, offering a kiss.  “You have a one track mind.”

Barry accepted the kiss.  “And you love it.”

“I suppose,” Boo Boo said.  “Still, I don’t know how I’m going to procure the services of your werewolf.  My powers only work on those in human form.”

“I guess you’ll just have to fall back on being a breathtakingly gorgeous celebrity to seal the deal,” Barry said.  “Poor you.”

“It will have to be sealed slowly,” Boo Boo said.  “Supernaturals are aware of the evil that lurks all around them.  He’ll be more skeptical than the average mark.”

“I know you’ve got it covered,” Barry said.

Boo Boo sat up.  “Let me see you.”

“What?” Barry said.  “You’re seeing me.”

Boo Boo ran her hand up and down Barry’s arm.  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the real you.”

“In front of the dingus?” Barry said as he pointed to Sam, who was still picking bloody bits off the floor.

“His brain is mush,” Boo Boo said.  “He doesn’t have any idea what’s going on.”

Barry sighed.  “Very well.”

The second most popular dancer in the club snapped his fingers.  Soon, a fire that started at his feet was lit.  The flames danced and flickered and grew and grew until they consumed his body, which grew taller and took the form of a fierce, loathsome looking demon, complete with long horns and sharp teeth.  Somehow, despite all laws of physics, the flames didn’t burn the couch or anything around him.

“Here’s looking at you, Boo Boo,” the demon said in a deep, grumbly voice.

Boo Boo laughed giddily and clapped her hands.  “Disco Baal!  Disco Baal!  Disco Baal!”

Baal rolled his red eyes.  “Ugh.  I hate that joke.”

Night had fallen over the exterior of Sweet Johnny’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge and as usual, Ecstasy was in rare form.  She had broken out her bullhorn, and was giving the lengthy line of disco wannabes the business.  No feelings were spared.

“You!  Did you even look at yourself in the mirror before you left the house tonight or were you afraid you might crack it?  I don’t blame you, honey.  Mirrors don’t grow on trees.  Why don’t you just go home and pray to Jesus for a new face?”

Ecstasy looked up at Bruno.  “I know this sounds harsh but they’re so lucky to get quality life advice like this for free.  No one advised me when I was getting started.  I would have killed for a few choice words of wisdom.”

The doorwoman took to the bullhorn once more and spotted out her next waiting victim.  “You!  Yes, you!  That outfit is a travesty!  It’s like you rolled around in Liberace’s closet and walked out wearing whatever stuck to you!  Capes are flamboyant musicians and superheroes only, darling, and you are neither so go on now.  Fly on out of here.”

At the back of the line, a pair of men wearing fedoras and long trench coats stood and waited.  Their names were Packard and Block and they were getting impatient.  They pushed their way towards the front.  “Excuse me.  Pardon me.”

Naturally, the line of disco enthusiasts who had been waiting for hours were not pleased.  Angry shouts, threats of physical violence and all manner of verbal abuse were hurled at the duo.

Meanwhile, Ecstasy unleashed her fury on the latest victim to reach the front of the line.  “Let me get this straight.  You want me to let you go inside so you can work the dance floor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said a dopey loser with a pencil thin mustache.  He was wearing a very unstylish barracuda jacket.

“Honey,” Ecstasy said as she waved her hand over the man’s body.  “Before I can do that, you have got to give me something to work with and before that can happen, you need to work on yourself.  Heavens to Betsy, sweetheart, I don’t know what kind of crazy pills you took to give you the courage to walk up to the door of Sweet Johnny’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge in clothes you bought right off the rack, but give me a few because I would totally love to be tripping balls instead of tripping over mine.  OK, take a hike, doll, and remember one word: designer.”

The two mystery men pushed their way to the front of the line, but not before accepting heaps of profanity laced tirades from those who had been waiting for so long.

“Well, well, well,” Ecstasy said.  “Aren’t you a couple of J. Edgar Losers?  Darlings, I don’t know who told you that the cloak and dagger look is in this season but whoever it was, lied, OK?”

Ecstasy pointed in the direction of the back of the line.  “Trench coats are for G-Men and perverts looking to flash little old ladies in the park but either way, the line to get in this posh establishment starts back there, so know your place and wait your turn, dummies.”

Packard and Block flashed their FBI credentials.  “We aren’t perverts,” Packard said.

The drag queen’s mouth was agape as she stared at the badges.  “So, you say.  Agents, what’s this all about?  Because if this is about spurious allegations vis a vis the presence, or more truthfully, lack of a presence of dangerous and illegally prohibited narcotics in this club, why, I assure you there has never been two sets of watchful eyes more diligent than those belonging to yours truly and my big, bad, Bruno, here.”

“Errm,” Bruno said.

The agents looked at each other, then the door woman.  “Can’t a couple of Feds just have a night out on the town?”

“Hmm,” Ecstasy said as she looked the G-Men over.  “I suppose there’s no harm in it, if that’s all they’re doing.”

Block pulled two Ulysses S. Grant portraits out of his wallet and handed them over to the doorwoman.  “We’d appreciate discretion.”

Ecstasy took the bills and as she was known to do, folded one and tucked it into her bra, then handed the over to Bruno.  “Discretion is my middle name.”

“No one needs to know we were ever here,” Packard said.

The doorwoman engaged in a tense staring contest with Packard until Block finally relented and handed over another pair of crisp bills.

“Who are you?” Ecstasy said as she lifted-up the velvet rope.  “I’ve never seen you before.  Go on, get your keisters inside before I forget your oh so forgettable faces. “

Once the agents were inside, Ecstasy leaned up on her tippy toes and whispered into Bruno’s ear.  “Man, I am going to have to take a break and go flush some shit.”

Ecstasy resumed her persona as the next soon-to-be-rejected line waiter approached.  “Oh, Marty,” the drag queen said to a chubby man.  “I know you’re trying your best but your ass looks like ten gallons of cottage cheese got stuffed into a five-gallon bag.  Either lose weight or let out your slacks but God, you’ve got to do one or the other.”

“Ahhwooo!”

Disco Werewolf’s signature howl cut through the night air, drawing mass elation from the crowd.

“Disco Werewolf!”  the people chanted over and over again.  “Disco Werewolf!  Disco Werewolf!  Disco Werewolf!”

Bruno shined a spotlight on good old DW.  Everyone’s favorite canine howled once more, then jumped off the side of the building that was across the street.  He landed on his feet.  He cocked his hip to the left, shot his pointer finger out to the right and accepted the crowd’s applause.

“Disco Werewolf!”  one woman cried out.  “When I’m with my boyfriend, I think about you!”

A male voice was next.  “Aw, come on, Becky, I’m right here!”

Another female voice.  “Marry me, Disco Werewolf!  Marry me and I’ll be yours forever!”

Disco Werewolf waved at the crowd.  He took a tour down the line, slapped some high fives, doled out some autographs. He even signed a breast or two.  He then made his way to the door woman.

Ecstasy smiled.  She was, well, in ecstasy as she gazed up at the club’s favorite dancer.  “Disco Werewolf, darling!  So lovely to see you again, though we must stop meeting like this, people will start to talk.”

The door woman tickled her fingers across DW’s paw.  “Why don’t we meet in my boudoir instead, sweetcheeks?  I’d be happy to…”  She leaned up and whispered the next part into Disco Werewolf’s ear, or at least, as close as she was able to get to it.  “…throw a dog a bone.”

Disco Werewolf was instantly grossed out, but not wanting to offend the gatekeeper, cocked back his head and howled.  “Ahhhwooo!”

“Oh, ahhwoo, yourself, you big gorgeous animal, you!” Ecstasy said as she slapped DW’s butt through his white pants.  “Go on, get in there before I eat you up!”

The party hound pointed out the hotties in line who had caught his eyes.  Once again, it was a diverse assortment.  Black, white, Asian, all the colors of the rainbow.  Wendy was there, this time in a purple dress, and she called out for him.  “Disco Werewolf!  Remember me?”

Disco Werewolf thought about it and decided to err on the side of not hurting Wendy’s feelings.  He pointed to her too.

“Go on, ladies,” Ecstasy said as she lifted up the velvet rope.  “The top dog sees something special in all of you, though God help me, I am positively stumped as to what that might be.”

The babes ran into the club.  Wendy stopped and grabbed DW, embracing him in a hug.  When she was done, she looked up at the dance icon.  “Thanks Disco Werewolf.”

“Woof,” Disco Werewolf replied.

Ernie Pomeroy sat behind his desk in a tight, cramped corner office just outside the hustle and bustle of the newsroom of the New York Courant.  The city desk editor had given up on keeping up appearances long ago.  His hair was done up in a bad combover.  His shirt bore the brunt of a number of lunch stains and there were some prominent crumbs in his mustache.

Although Claudette was grossed out by all of this, her focus was on selling her photo, which Ernie was studying as if it were a snip straight out of the Zapruder film.  “There he is.  Disco Werewolf in the flesh.”

Ernie studied the shot with a magnifying glass.  “It’s not really the flesh though, is it?  What’s this guy wearing?  Felt?  I hope this isn’t real fur.  That’s cruel.”

“Mr. Pomeroy,” Claudette said.  “I assure you.  Disco Werewolf is real.”

“A real fraud,” Pomeroy said.  “Which is an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.”

Claudette sat down in the visitor’s chair across from Ernie’s desk.  “Sir, I’ve seen things…”

Ernie set the photo down on his desk and sat back.  “Yes, Miss Jenkins.  I know.  You’ve told me.  You’ve quote unquote ‘seen things.’  Trolls who live under bridges and ask riddles.  Ogres who live in sewers and are obsessed with their odors.  Goblins who live in our heating ducts.  Vampires and werewolves, witches and warlocks who walk among us, holding themselves out as human.”

Claudette offered no response.

“There are all kinds of writers, Miss Jenkins,” Ernie said.  “If fiction’s your bag, I suggest you write a novel and query it throughout the publishing industry.  Cross your fingers and hope to get an agent.  But here at The Courant, we deal in facts, not fiction.  Truth, not make-believe.”

“This isn’t make-believe,” Claudette said.

“The first rule of journalism is if you can’t back it up, then you can’t print it,” Ernie said as he held up the photo.  “Prove to me this is a real werewolf.”

Claudette thought about the question.  She considered a number of possible responses, realized that Ernie would have most likely rejected each one, so ultimately, she just sat there and awaited the incoming lecture.

“Well,” Ernie said.  “Can you?”

“If you can’t see it with your own eyes…”

“Miss Jenkins,” Ernie said.  “I’ve been a newsman for a long time.  A long time.  Longer than you’ve been alive.  I check, double-check, and triple-check everything before I believe it, and quadruple check everything before I even dare to print it.  When my own mother tells me she loves me, I ask dear old dad if she’s full of it or on the level.  What proof can you offer me to make me, and more importantly, this paper’s readers believe that this is legit?”

“I saw him,” Claudette said.  “Up close.  He walks.  He talks.  He breathes.  He howls.”

“Yes,” Ernie said.  “And whoever this Disco Werewolf really is, there’s no doubt he’s a master of special effects.  Have you seen the pictures these days?  Some amazing things they’re doing that’ll take your breath away.  For all I know, this could be some kind of performance art designed to sell the next big Hollywood horror film.”

Claudette shook her head.  She knew it was no use to try to plead her case further.

“Look, kid,” Ernie said.  “You’ve got moxie.  You want this.  You’re hungry.  I know what that’s like.  Feels like it was ages ago but I remember when I was trying to break into this business and couldn’t get my foot in the door.  You’ve got heart but you’re young.  Green around the gills.  Go to college.  Have a blast.  Pound on some bongos with some hippies and smoke some reefer sticks and do whatever the hell college kids do these days.  Write for the student paper.  Build a clip file.  Get some honest to god news training and you’ll find out just how hard this job really is.  Just remember that no one starts out in the penthouse of this game.  Everyone’s got to start up the basement steps and climb their way up to the top, step by step.  It isn’t for everyone and if you get a taste of this world and don’t like it, there’s always other things you can do.  And if you do like it, my door’s open to talk job opportunities.”

The young woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them.  “Sir, this is too important to wait.  I’m covering stories, right here, right now the likes of which the world has never seen before.”

Ernie smirked.  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of old papers.  “Oh, the world’s seen them before, alright.”

The city desk editor held up a paper titled International Conspiracy Tattler!  Underneath the headline was the publications tagline: We Speak Truth to Power.  On the front page, there was a picture of Elvis, but with a pair of sharp fangs popping out of his mouth.

Ernie read the headline out loud.  “Elvis Lives!  How the King of Rock and Roll Faked His Death on the Toilet and Ran to Barbados.”

“At age 42, Elvis Presley, better known to the supernatural underworld as Gorak the Unholy, knew the jig was up.  It would only be a matter of time before he would be exposed as the vampire that he was and the idea of seeing all his fans burn his albums and demand that he be staked through the heart was too much for him to bear.  Sure, he had taken to stuffing his clothes with cotton to give the appearance of weight gain, while make-up artists toiled day and night to add wrinkles and other signs of age.  However, despite his best efforts to hide his terrible secret, he knew it wouldn’t be long before Graceland would be surrounded by hordes of angry people brandishing torches and pitchforks, just as how his time spent at so many castles in the past had ended.  According to our sources, Presley paid off authorities to aid him in faking his own death so that he could run to the Caribbean and begin a new life as a fishing boat captain.”

Ernie snickered.  “Tripe.”  He picked up another paper and held it up.  On the left hand of the front page, there was a picture of noted actor turned politician Ronald Reagan.  On the right side, there was a picture of a werewolf sporting Reagan’s signature black pompadour style hair-cut.  The headline read: “Ronald Reagan: Werewolf!”

“Get a load of this garbage,” Ernie said just before he read the tabloid’s prose.  “We all thought that the California governor’s meteoric rise through the ranks of the Republican party was due to his own brand of down to earth, folksy wisdom with a pinch of Hollywood star power.  However, after a thorough investigation, we have determined that the Gipper slashed his way to the top from behind the scenes, thanks to some help from his trusty wolf claws.  That’s right, folks.  If there’s one thing Governor Reagan hates, its unwashed hippies.  If there’s two things he hates, it’s unwashed hippies and a silver bullet.”

Ernie picked up another edition of The Tattler.  It featured a photo of a beautiful woman wearing an elegant gown.  In the next photo, the same woman’s face had been replaced with that of an other worldly being.  It had three bug eyes and sharp teeth.

“This one’s my favorite,” he said before as he pointed to the title.  “Extraterrsexuals!  How Our Planet Has Been Secretly Invaded By Hungry Hookers From Outer Space!”

Ernie read away.  “New York’s discerning gentlemen will have to be a little more discerning.  As it turns out, Meelothorps form Krobash 12 have infiltrated our world, currently posing as ladies of the evening.  They may say that they’re hungry for a man’s cash and company, but what they’re really looking to devour is something else entirely.”

The city desk editor grabbed the tabloids and shoved them back in his desk drawer.  “Ah, I get a kick out of those.  They sell them at a newsstand I walk by everyday on the way to work and everyday I say I’m not going to waste my money on this garbage but I can’t help it.  They’re hysterical.”

Claudette did not appear amused.

“There are all kinds of writers, Miss Jenkins,” Ernie said.  “If you want to write tabloid schlock, more power to you.  There’s a market for it and it takes a certain kind of talent, I’ll admit.  But if you aspire to work at this paper, you’re going to have to bring the goods.”

Claudette nodded.  She had no further interest in arguing.  She grabbed her back-pack and was about to head for the door when Ernie stopped her with an offer.  “Twenty bucks”

“Twenty bucks?”  Claudette asked.  “That’s actual proof of…”

“…a moron who likes to bounce around in a Halloween costume.  And that’s what the caption will read.  Something like, ‘Costumed Buffoon Wins Over Crowd at Discotheque.’”

“And a byline?”  Claudette asked.

Ernie scoffed.  “Please.  If I give a byline to a tyke barely out of romper room, my seasoned reporters will burn me at the stake.”

Claudette stood there, wondering to herself if she had chosen the right profession.

“Take it or leave it,” Ernie said as he looked at his watch.  “One of my people called in sick so I’ve got a hole to fill on page D-23.  This will work if we get it out in, oh, about five minutes.”

“Fine,” Ernie said.

Ernie scribbled onto something down onto a slip of paper, then handed it to Claudette.  “Take this to the receptionist out front.  She’ll cut you a check.”

Claudette took the paper and headed for the door.  Ernie stopped her again.  “Miss Jenkins, a thank you would be nice.  Not many high school students get their work published in a national newspaper and frankly, I should throw this photo in the trash.  I don’t know what’s going on with this spot of light but the boys will have their work cut out for them to crop that out of the photo.  Do check your flash next time.”

“I will,” Claudette said.  “And thank you.”

The twins sat outside the school on a bench, waiting for their bus to arrive.  Or rather, Whitney’s bus.  Mitch wouldn’t be taking it.  At any rate, Whitney was aghast upon hearing the tale of the locker room antics that had gone awry.

“Half-power?” Whitney asked.  “You’re telling me his body crushed a locker and you only threw him at half-power.”

“I don’t know the exact ratio of the power I used,” Mitch said.  “It’s all a blur.  I didn’t think I was using that much.”

“You don’t know your own strength,” Whitney said.  “Neither of us do.  We’re like spoiled house puppies.  We’ve never used our powers in the wild so we have no idea what we’re capable of.”

“I didn’t know I was capable of that,” Mitch said.

Whitney sighed.  “I hate to say it, but maybe Mom and Dad are right.  Maybe our powers should be repressed.”

“Maybe he just got what was coming to him,” Mitch said.

“You say that now,” Whitney said.  “But had he died…”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he could have.”

Kids milled about, gabbing away to each other.

“He’s fine,” Mitch said.  “He had it coming to him.”

“But now he knows who you are,” Whitney said.

“So?” Mitch asked.

“He’ll talk.”

“And who will listen?”  Mitch asked.  “You think anyone’s going to believe that I’m secretly a werewolf who he thinks porked his girlfriend?”

“No,” Whitney said.  “But I don’t think he’ll take this lying down either.  You have to be more careful, little brother.  Don’t let your emotions get to you and…”

Whitney’s blatherings became background noise in Mitch’s ears as he noticed Claudette walk across the parking lot toward her car, which, being a late 1960s Dodge Charger, sleek and black, was way cooler than any of the other jalopies the older kids were driving.

Sister waved her hand in front of brother’s face.  “Hello?  Earth to Mitch.  Come in, Mitch.”  She followed his eyes to their inevitable conclusion.  “Ahh.  The irony is thick.”

“Huh?” Mitch said as he practically burned a hole in Claudette’s derriere with his peepers.

“Disco Werewolf beds the most bodacious beauties from the five boroughs,” Whitney said.  “Mitch Lumpkiss can’t screw up enough courage to ask the girl next door to get a chocolate malt.”

“What?” Mitch asked.  “I can.  I could…if I wanted to.”

“Oh, you want to.”

“I have bigger things on my plate.”

“Disco Werewolf only feels lust for his groupies,” Whitney said.  “But your feelings for Claudette are the stuff that love is made of.”

Mitch laughed.  “They are…not.  OK, maybe.”

“Maybe you should ask her out before we graduate and all go our separate ways,” Mitch said.

Mitch stared as Claudette got into her car.  Soon, he broke himself out of the trance.  He stood up, pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket, peeled a few bills off of it and handed them to her sister.  “Here’s a down payment on your hush money.  Start hushing.”

“Why don’t you use some of that cabbage to get us a car, doofus?”  Whitney asked.  “You could cut your Derrick interactions by half.”

“Yeah,” Mitch said.  “Like Mom and Dad wouldn’t have questions.”

“It doesn’t have to be a brand-new Corvette,” Whitney said.  “Just something a bowling alley cashier could afford.”

Mitch pressed a finger up to his lips.  “Remember sis.  Hush money.  ‘Hush’ is the operative word.”

The nerd looked at the curb, where a yellow taxi had just arrived.  The words “Seacaucus Cab Company” were stamped on the side.

“My chariot awaits,” Mitch said.

Whitney stood and put a hand on her brother’s shoulder.  “Little bro, as your older…”

“By five minutes,” Mitch said.

“…and wiser sister, I feel the need to give you some advice.”

“Don’t abuse my power,” Mitch said.  “I know.”

“That,” Whitney said.  “And any venereal diseases that Disco Werewolf catches will be transferrable to you as a human.”

The twins exchanged blank stares.

“Food for thought,” Whitney said.

“Enjoy the bus,” Mitch replied as he walked to his cab.  He hopped into the back.

“Where to, Mac?”

“Manhattan.”

“Manhattan?”  the cabbie asked.  “Why don’t you just ask me to drive you to Mars?”

Mitch shook his head and mumbled under his breath.  “You’re all cut from the same cloth…here!”

The cabbie took a look at the trio of crisp hundreds in his hand.  “That’ll work.”

One perk of taking Mrs. Weber’s photography class was access to the school’s darkroom.  Claudette spent her free period allowing the photos she had snapped of Boogiedown Barry hugging Disco Werewolf to develop in a tub full of chemicals.  She then carefully retrieved them and hanged them on a line to dry.

When she finally got a good look at the images, she was shocked by what she had seen.  Three photos, each one of the werewolf in question but Boogiedown Barry was not in any of them.  Instead, there was just a glint of light where he would have been.

“What the…”

The aspiring journalist’s mind raced.  Dust on the lens?  Refracted light from the disco ball?  The possibilities were endless, though she took it as a screwup on her part.  Gently, she placed the dried photos into a large manilla envelope and packed them into her backpack.