Bookshelf Battle

“Little Lumpkiss,” Phil said.  “What exactly did you not understand?”

“Should I read it again?” Larry asked.

“No!” cried Phil and Lorraine in unison.

Pop shifted in his seat, scratched his behind, and snored.

“Sweetheart,” Larry said.  “Don’t you see?  Archimedes used his werewolf powers for ill and it caught up with him.  It ruined his life and the lives of so many others.”

“I bet this didn’t even happen,” Whitney said.  “It’s just a load of crap that supernatural parents spew at their kids to make them behave and act human.”

Larry gasped.  “Blasphemy!”

“It’s real,” Phil said.  “I should know because I was…”

“There?”  Lorraine asked.

“You’ve sat through me reading this book on how many times and never volunteered that information?”  Larry asked.

“I don’t know,” Phil said.  “The Little Lumpkisses never questioned it before.  They usually either listened intently or fell asleep.  I suppose they’re getting older.”

“What was it like?” Whitney asked.

“Even worse than the book describes,” Phil said.  “I was never one to miss a good war but I wish I had missed that one.  The sight of all that spent flesh, the smell of the hot sun beating down on ogre guts and the worst of it is I had to buy a whole new wardrobe after.”

“That was the worst of it?”  Lorraine asked.

“You know I’m nothing if not a fashionista,” Phil answered.

“Fine,” Whitney said.  “It happened.  But if you ask me, supernaturals got the short end of the stick.”

“What makes you say that?” Larry asked.

“Humans were just as responsible for that war,” Whitney said.

Larry and Lorraine looked at Phil.  “Eh,” the vampire said.  “She isn’t wrong.  Both sides worked themselves into a speciesist frenzy had one or the other come to its senses, all those lives could have been saved.”

“OK,” Larry said.  “But by giving up their powers, supernaturals have been able to stop another war like that from ever happening again.”

Whitney took on a school marmish tone.  “They stopped another war from breaking out between humans and supernaturals, but they didn’t stop war.  How many wars have the humans started since then?  And how many supernaturals posing as humans died in those?”

Phil looked at Larry.  “She’s got you there.”

“She does not,” Larry said.  “Young lady…”

“No,” Whitney said.  “I’m supposed to feel bad because I was born a werewolf, as if I had a say in the matter, just because some dumb werewolf a thousand years ago did some stupid things that caused a war, but Hitler killed how many humans and no ever thinks that maybe humans need to take a step back?”

Larry looked at Phil.  “Was Hitler a human?”

“In the physiological sense,” Larry replied.

“Martin Luther King said to judge a man not by the color of his skin but by the content of his character,” Whitney said.  “Had he known about supernaturals, he probably would have added a line about how you shouldn’t judge us based on our powers but what we do with them.  Just because one werewolf did bad, doesn’t mean all werewolves do bad.”

Larry stammered and stumbled for a response.  “That’s just…uh…maybe…ok…but…alright, sit back, sweetheart, I’m going to read it again.”

“No!” Phil and Lorraine said.

“Little Lumpkiss,” Phil said.  “In your dear old dad’s defense, you were, earlier this evening, talking about ripping about bank vaults and glamouring music company executives.”

“Hypothetically,” Whitney said.

“It’s all fun and hypothetical until some poor, defenseless human gets eviscerated,” Phil said.  “And trust me, it’ll be fun in the moment but after you’ve had time to think about it, you won’t be proud of what you’ve done.  I wasn’t always the happy go lucky insurance claims adjuster of the year, sixteen years in a row that you see before you.”

“We know,” Larry said.

“Boy, do we know,” Lorraine added.

“See?”  Whitney said.  “You changed for the better.  Supernaturals are capable of positive change.”

“I only changed after a thousand years of self-reflection,” Phil said.  “After allowing my powers to lie dormant for so long, I realized what it was like to be an ordinary dope who has to schlep through life just like anyone else.  Suddenly, all those victims I bit and drained of blood weren’t just random snacks.  They were people.  People who had hopes and dreams and ended up selling them out to take some crappy job similar to insurance claims adjusting.  All those people I glamoured out of their money were ruined and now that I know what it’s like to make a buck the honest way, I sympathize.  My modest home next door is a hovel compared to the palaces I’ve lived in, but I appreciate it more because I earned it honestly and the thought of losing it makes me weep because the idea of having to start all over from scratch frightens me, even though I have to do it every forty to fifty years or so, whenever everyone around me starts asking too many questions.  And the woman I glamoured into sleeping with me?  Well, fun as that was, I realize now I was using those women as objects.  Once I cut out the hypnotism cold turkey, I was able to actually start talking to women.  I found out what makes them tick.  I learned to put myself out there, to be vulnerable.  I learned what it was actually like to love.  I’ll take one Lorna Hutton over a thousand glamoured women any day of the week.”

Larry pointed to Phil, then looked at Whitney.  “See that, Whit?  Fitzpatrick is a cautionary tale.  Live a good life.  Do unto others as they would do unto you.  Don’t end up like this bum.”

Lorraine clutched her pearls.  “Larry!”

“OK,” Larry said.  “Maybe ‘bum’ is a bit much.  Sorry, Phil.”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve been called,” Phil said.

“Is he a bum though?” Whitney asked.

Phil sighed.  “Like all those alcoholics in those meetings, child, I’m trying to sort out what I have the power to change for the better, and what I can’t.  That which I can change for the good I will try to do so.  That which I can’t, I must learn to let go and believe me, when I go to sleep, I am reminded of the many lives I ruined and how it’s too late for me to fix them.”

“But think of all the lives you could save now!” Whitney said.

“Come again?” Phil said.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Whitney said.  “Earlier tonight, you said that the plague almost wiped out Europe, all because bad leaders were too busy screwing the world up and that made it so that all the smart people didn’t have enough time to think about how to build a toilet.”

“I suppose I did,” Phil said.

“I got what you meant,” Whitney said.  “Things aren’t the best they could be, but they’ve gotten a lot better in the past century.  The better place the world is, the more time people have to devote to fixing the world’s problems.”

“An accurate statement,” Phil said.

“So,” Whitney said.  “What if supernaturals were allowed to use their powers for good?”

“What’s that now?” Phil asked.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Whitney said.  “What if the cure for cancer is so complex that it could never be figured out by a human mind.  What if, and follow me on this, it required the mind of a three thousand year old vampire, a being who has had the time to train in multiple professions, obtain tons of advanced degrees, has been a doctor in past lives and, oh, I don’t know, can coordinate the efforts of research teams all around the world because he speaks every language?”

Phil appeared lost in thought.  “Huh.  Out of the mouths of babes.”

Larry snickered.  “Fitzpatrick curing cancer.  That’ll be the day.”

“Maybe he couldn’t cure cancer,” Lorraine said.  “But maybe his skills aren’t being put to their best use as an insurance agent.”

“Claims adjuster,” Phil said.

“Whatever,” Lorraine said.

“Dad,” Whitney said as she looked at the TV.  The movie was over and a special report about the Iranian hostage crisis was on, though the volume was still low.  “What if a werewolf could sneak into a place like that, shred all the bad guys and lead the hostages to safety?”

“I don’t think one werewolf could take on every Iranian revolutionary, dear,” Larry said.

“Fine,” Whitney said.  “A pack of them then.  One werewolf on the battlefield is equal to what, twenty human soldiers?  How many lives could be saved if werewolf soldiers could be allowed to fight as werewolves?”

“Not gonna lie,” Larry said.  “Korea would have been a lot easier.”

Larry looked at Phil, then back at his daughter.  “We should know because we were both there.”

“Would construction projects take less time if ogres were allowed to work on them?” Whitney asked.  “How many steel beams could they carry?”

“A lot,” Phil said.

“And goblins and trolls,” Whitney said.  “They uh…uh…”

“They don’t have much in the way of innate skill but I’m sure they could be put to use somewhere,” Phil said.  “Though you’d have to get goblins to stop staring at people with their bug eyes and trolls to stop demanding that everyone solve their riddles three.”

“I bet we haven’t even scratched the surface of what witches and warlocks could do. Think about everything that the world is missing out on, just because supernaturals are being held back from reaching their full potential,” Whitney said.  “Just as past periods of strife kept humans from reaching theirs.”

“I’m convinced,” Phil said.

“You are?” Larry asked.

“That Lorraine had an affair because this girl is too smart to be your daughter, Lawrence?”  Phil said.  “Yes.”

“You know, Phil.  You think you’re funny but…”

“I jest,” Phil said.  “I’m convinced that one fine day, at some point in the distant future, supernaturals will have sufficiently atoned for the sins of their ancestors and that by learning to get by without their powers for so long, they will be able to be trusted with the awesome power that comes with them.  When that day comes, it would be foolish to stand in the way of the help that supernaturals could provide.”

“Thank you,” Whitney said.

“But that day isn’t here yet,” Phil said.

“It isn’t?” Whitney asked.

“No,” Phil said.  “Little Lumpkiss, the time period we are living in, right now, is the first time that doesn’t completely suck.  It could be better.  Much better.  But I’m seeing something that has never happened before and that’s people, in large numbers, standing up and calling for equal rights for others.  Humans standing up for others who are not like them.  Humans stepping out of their comfort zone and demanding the government protect people of different races, religions, creeds and genders.  We’re just at the beginning but so far, it’s a beautiful thing.  Add supernaturals to the mix and all the progress the humans have made might be lost and don’t forget that this progress helps supernaturals who live as humans.”

“What about supernaturals who can’t pass for humans?”  Whitney asked.  “How much longer can we expect them to live in the dark?”

“I don’t know,” Larry said.  “These are questions that are even beyond my seemingly limitless powers of comprehension.”

The vampire stood, stretched and yawned.  “Well, if you’ll excuse me Lumpkisses, that’s enough education for one evening.  I must try to get a few hours of shut eye before I wake up, toss on three overcoats and a ski mask just to walk outside during the daylight hours and go to my desk, where one elderly Mrs. Gertrude Sinclair will no doubt call me for the fourth day in a row and chew my ear off about how the accident she was in was the other guy’s fault and if I think she’s going to pay a deductible after all of the on time payments she’s made since 1952, I can go straight to hell.  Good evening, my favorite family.  Thank you, Lorraine, for the blood, and Lawrence, for the amusement.”

“You’re welcome, Phil,” Lorraine said.

“I’d say come back anytime,” Larry said.  “But I probably wouldn’t mean it.”

Phil grabbed the place where his heart had turned cold and black and pretended as though an arrow had just shot it.  “Zing!”

The vampire patted Whitney on the head.  “Buck up, Little Lumpkiss.  Your day will come.”

The house guest stepped into the kitchen and was about to leave when Larry called out to him.  “Hey Phil!”

“Yes?”  Phil said.

“Be useful for once in your life.  Dish out a couple scoops of cobbler and give it to those two dimbulbs in the garage, will you?” Larry asked.

“Sure thing, Lumpkiss.”

Out in the garage, Whitney wailed away on the microphone.  She was a skinny girl with short, spikey black hair.  Like a stereotypical goth girl, she had smeared black around her eyes and painted her face a ghostly white.  She wore a spiked collar around her neck, tight leather pants and a black t-shirt emblazoned with white letters that read, “Sexual Vomit.”

“Pain!  Pain, pain!  Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain!  Your love is not a sprain!  It pelts my face like acid rain! Of this, I will complain!  It’s an aching canker sore that mars the inner lining of my rectum and makes me gag until I spew out rancid fecal matter from my nasal passages!”

To Whitney’s right, Peter was on guitar.  He was a spindly lad with a green mohawk.  He wore a denim vest with no shirt underneath and dirty jeans with rips in the knees.  He banged his head around furiously as he shredded his axe.

To Whitney’s left was Stevie on drums.  He was shirtless and only wore a pair of shorts.  His head was hidden away behind a leather gimp mask.  He was lost in the moment, pounding away on those drums.

Whitney made a fist, then stuck up her pinky and pointer fingers, thus making a set of devil horns.  She stuck her tongue between said digits, flapped it up and down and shouted more nonsense.  “BAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!  VOMIT!  VOMIT, VOMIT, VOMIT!  SEXUAL VOMIT!!!  YEAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”

Peter riffed away on his guitar, then grabbed it by the end and used it to trash the Lumpkiss family garage.  Nothing was safe.  From bottles and cans to bags and boxes, everything was hurled everywhere.

Stevie joined in on the mayhem, kicking his drum set over.  The noise it made as it fell to the ground was unbearable.

Not to be undone, Whitney kicked over the mic stand, then leaned her head back.  As she stared up at the ceiling, she held the microphone to her mouth and cried, “Thank you Seacaucus!  We are Sexual Vomit and we’re here all week!”

Even though he wasn’t British, Peter faked an accent anyway as he leaned into Whitney’s microphone.  “And don’t forget to tip the waitresses, ya’ bloody cheapskates!”

Peter clapped.  He grabbed the end of a zipper located on one side of his mask’s mouth hole, dragged it to the other side, and spoke.  “Encore!  Woo!”  He then zipped his mask shut.

“Yeah!”  Whitney said.  “Encore coming right up!  We love you, New Jersey!  Vomit, vomit, vomit, vomit, YEAH!!!!!”

Ever so slowly, the garage door rolled up.  Peter watched in horror as he saw the man of the house’s sensible black shoes, followed by his legs, then his torso, and finally, his face, which was the epitome of seething rage.

Larry was in human form again, and he had changed into a new plaid shirt and a new pair of jeans.  In his hand, he held a spray nozzle attached to a garden hose.

Whitney was oblivious.  “Vomit in my mouth and I’ll vomit in yours!  Vomit all over till it oozes out your pores!”

“Whitney,” Peter said.

“Vomit up your lungs and vomit out your eyes!  Your love is the only thing I ever will despise!”

              “OK, Whitney,” Peter said.  “Cut it.”

“Vomit around the world in eighty days on a comet propelled by your own snot!”

              Stevie was the next teenager to notice the unhappy homeowner.  He unzipped his mask.  “Whitney!  Cool it!  It’s your dad!”

“Vomit in a pail and pull it over your head, your love is the only thing that I want dead and…ACK!”

              Dad pulled the handle.  Daughter was hit with a water jet.  She sputtered and coughed, her bad makeup job running down the sides of her face.  She put her hands up in a vain effort to protect himself from the blast, but it was of no use.  “Dad!  What the hell, man?!”

Peter attempted a more contrite approach.  “Sorry, Mr. Lumpkiss.  I hope we didn’t disturb you.  I think I had the amp a little too high so I apologize for…blech!”

Too late.  Mr. Lumpkiss wasn’t having any of it.  He sprayed the guitarist until his previously starched mohawk flopped down to either of the shaved sides of his head.

“Good call, sir,” Peter said as he spit up water.  “My bad.”

Stevie unzipped his gimp mask.  “Mr. Lumpkiss, I think it was the great Mahatma Gandhi who once said, ‘The weak can never forgive, for forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.’  You are by far the strongest man I know, sir, so…”

The drummer zipped his mouth hole shut just in time to avoid sucking up a water blast.  Larry sprayed and sprayed, but the water just bounced off the kid’s leather mask.

“Is this even affecting you?”  Larry asked.

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole.  “No sir.”  He zipped the mouth hole shut.

 

“Eh,” Larry said as he let go off the spray nozzle handle.  “Screw it, then.  I’m not going to run up my water bill any higher.”

Whitney looked like a rodent that drowned and was left to ferment in a storm drain.  “Dad!  We’re trying to practice.”

“Practice makes perfect, sweetheart,” Larry said.  “And whatever the heck that was, it was the furthest thing I’ve ever heard from perfect in my entire life.  I have half a mind to ship you off to a convent, young lady.”

Fitzpatrick’s heckling cut the tension.  “Do it, Lumpkiss, and I’ll finally respect you!”

Larry turned toward Fitzpatrick’s house.  “Sit on your thumb and rotate, Phil!”

The man of the house turned back to the makeshift punk band.  “You kids can’t do this here anymore. You’re cheesing off the neighbors and Mrs. Lumpkiss can’t even hear ourselves think.”

Whitney stomped her foot.  “But Dad!  We have to get ready for the talent show next month!”

“Talent,” Larry said.  “Operative word.  What kind of noise do you call that anyway?”

Peter gulped, then mustered enough courage to speak.  “It’s punk, sir.”

“What?” Larry asked.

“Punk,” Peter repeated.

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole.  “It’s an open rebellion against traditional rock and roll, which has gotten way too commercial.”  Stevie zipped his hole shut.

“It has?” Larry asked.

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole.  “It sure has.  It’s all full of subliminal messages, trying to sell kids on a certain unattainable lifestyle, really just a way for the man to try to trick the youth into becoming overachievers whereas we, in protest, remind everyone about how dark and depressing life really is.”

Stevie rezipped his hole shut.

“I get a reminder about how dark and depressing the world is every quarter,” Larry said.  “It’s called my property tax bill.”

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole.  “Good one sir,” he said, and then zipped the hole shut.

Larry squinted at the drummer.  “Stevie Flenderson, as I live and breathe, is that you under there?”

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole, answered, “Yes sir,” then zipped his hole shut.

“Yikes,” Larry said.  “I know your father, kid.  I drink beers with him at the VFW every third Thursday of the month and he would definitely not approve of this.”

Stevie unzipped his hole, said, “Please don’t tell him, sir,” then zipped his hole shut.

“Stop showing up at my house with that thing on your head and I might forget,” Larry said.

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole, said, “Fair enough,” then zipped his mouth hole shut.

“Son,” Larry said.  “Why on God’s green earth would you ever put on a get up like that?”

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole, said, “To get girls,” then zipped his mouth hole shut.

“To get girls,” Larry said.  “And has it worked?”

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole, replied, “Not as such, no,” then zipped his mouth hole shut.

“You know, son,” Larry said.  “When I was your age, if a fella wanted to impress girls, he tried out for the football team.  You ever think about doing that?”

Stevie unzipped his mouth hole, but Larry cut him off.  “Take that off.”

The drummer complied.  He removed the mask to reveal a freckled face and bushy red hair.  “I’d try out, but high school’s almost over for us.”

“Yeah,” Larry said as he looked around at his trashed garage.  “And this is all you have to show for it.  What a shame.”

Fitzpatrick resumed his heckling.  “You tell ‘em, Lumpkiss!”

Larry went for the proverbial jugular.  “No one blamed your wife when she left you, Phil!”

Fitzpatrick went quiet for a few seconds, then shouted, “Ouch!”

“Sorry!” Larry hollered back.  “I immediately regretted it after I said it!”

“It’s fine!” Fitzpatrick yelled.  “We’re only human!”

Larry focused on his daughter.  “Go wash up.  Your mother made a lovely dinner and it’s rude to let it get cold.”

Whitney responded in sheer exasperation.  “Ugh!  You’re stifling my freedom of artistic expression!”

“Do I need to turn this hose on again?”  Larry asked.

Whitney sulked, and tromped into the house.  “No.  Bye guys.”

The singer slammed the door behind her.  Once the men were alone, Larry looked down his nose and over his glasses at the boys.

“Either of you two dipshits touch my daughter?”

Both lads shook their heads to the right and left, vigorously.  “No, sir,” they both replied.

“Good,” Larry said as he set the hose down in his yard.  He walked into the garage.  “I won’t cut off your dinguses then, but I want this place cleaned up before I go to bed, you hear?”

Both boys nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

“Glad we have an understanding,” Larry said as he walked toward the door that led to the kitchen.  “Just know that I mean it.  I’m going to come out here before the night’s over, and if it isn’t exactly the way it was before you wrecked it, it’ll be your asses on a platter.”

“Yes, sir,” the dejected boys responded.

“Punk rock,” Larry said.  “What’s the world coming to?”

Larry walked into the house and shut the door behind him.  Seconds later, he opened the door and poked his head out into the garage.  “If there’s any left over, I might bring some of Mrs. Lumpkiss’ cherry cobbler out here…if I feel like it.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boys said.

Seacaucus, New Jersey

              The modest home located at 52 Periwinkle Drive looked like any other.  It was white with black shutters, had a finely manicured green lawn and a sturdy oak tree that abutted a white picket fence.  A beat-up pick-up truck sat in the driveway next to a wood paneled station wagon.

To their neighbors, the family that dwelled within appeared typical.  In fact, as Disco Werewolf partied hearty across the Hudson River, Larry and Lorraine Lumpkiss prepared for a quiet evening at home.

Larry, the man of the house, wore a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans.  His body was beginning to suffer the ravages of middle age, namely a hairline that was receding and a waistline that was expanding.  Even so, he was sturdy and carried his bulk well.  He squinted through a pair of glasses as he read the evening edition of The New York Courant, to which he was a dedicated, long time subscriber.

“Will you get a load of this?” Larry asked.  “Environmental Activists Protest in Wake of Three Mile Island Nuclear Planet Meltdown.”

              Larry looked up from the paper.  “Bah!  Lousy good for nothings.  Get a job, hippies!”

Lorraine, Larry’s devoted housewife, tended to an assortment of pots and pans on the stove.  Her hair was brown with streaks of gray and she wore a yellow apron over a pink dress.

“What’s that, dear?” the lady of the house asked as she pounded a pot full of potatoes with a masher.

“Oh, nothing,” Larry said.  “Just a bunch of degenerate no-goodniks getting in the way again.”

Larry looked to his left, where an old man was sitting.  The codger had a worn, shriveled body, with just a few tufts of hair left on his head.  Most of his teeth were missing.  His glasses were the size of cola bottles and he wore a cardigan that had been buttoned haphazardly.

“If you ask me, all these big mouths shouldn’t have a say in anything until they get a job and pay taxes just like the rest of us, don’t you think so, Pop?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders.  “Meh.”

“You worked.  I worked.  Yet all these kids think they just know it all, don’t they?”

Pop shook his head.  “Meh.”

 

Larry patted Pop on the back.  “Good talk, Pop.”

“Meh.”

Lorraine opened up the oven and took a peak inside.  A cheese covered tuna noodle casserole was baking up to a golden brown.  “Looks like a few more minutes.”

“Hot dog,” Larry said.  “I am starving.  Where the hell is Whitney? She should be helping you.”

“Oh, you know,” Lorraine said.  “Out in the garage with her little friends as usual.”

Larry pounded the table.  “Hippies!  In my own house.  It’s an infestation, I tell you.”

“I don’t think they’re hippies, Larry,” Lorraine said.

“Well, they’re some kind of strange, I’ll tell you that.”

“No arguments there.”

Pop choked and gasped.  Larry turned around just in time to catch his father choking on a plastic disk.

“Jesus H. Crow, Pop!” Larry said as he yanked the circle out of his father’s piehole.  “That’s not food!  That’s a coaster!”

Larry returned the coaster to a stack in the center of the table, then stood up and rummaged through a cabinet.  He retrieved a cookie and handed it to the old man.  “Here.  Have at that.”

“Oh, Larry,” Lorraine said.  “You’ll spoil his dinner.”

“Sorry, hun,” Larry said.  “Just one, Pop.”

“Meh,” Pop said as he used one of his few remaining teeth to gnaw on the treat.

Ring!

“Now who could that be?” Lorraine asked as she looked up from one of her pots.

Larry walked over to a rotary phone attached to the wall.  It was bright yellow, with a circular dialing disk in the middle, and a long, curly cord that dangled down to the floor.  “I got it.  Hello?”

The man of the house listened patiently for a minute.  “Huh?  What’s that now?  A timeshare in Fabulous Downtown Bayonne?  No, that does not sound like a good deal.  No, not at all.  What?  No, I don’t care if you’ve got one in Flagstaff, Arizona.  Yeah, but…uh huh…well, ma’am I’m not much interested in spending any time in Butte, Montana either.  Why?  How about because I’m not made of money, OK?  Yeah…hey…no…right…no…listen, lady, I don’t know how you got my number but you must have confused me with the King of Siam if you think I can afford all that so I’ll thank you to lose my number, OK?  Goodbye.”

Larry returned to his seat at the table.  “I told her to lose my number.”

“You were tough but fair, dear,” Lorraine replied.

“I know,” Larry said.  “That oughtta settle her hash.  Women selling timeshares over the phone.  Jeeze Louise, next thing you know they’ll have a woman president and blammo!  She gets her monthly visit from Aunt Flo, hits the button, nukes Russia and it’s World War III.”

Lorraine feigned laughter.  “You’re such a card, dear.”

“I know.”

Larry picked up his paper and began to read again.  “Oil prices are through the roof.  No surprise there.  Why don’t you just bend over and let the Ayatollah get up there hard and deep, Jimmy?”

“Oh,” Lorraine said.  “Speaking of that, did you remember to fill up my car?”

Hubby slapped his forehead.  He set the paper down and turned to his wife.  “I did not.”

“Larry!  I’m going to be in the gas line all morning tomorrow then!”

“Nope,” Larry said.  “You’re good.  You know I always keep an extra can in the garage for emergencies.”

“Well,” Lorraine said as she stirred a pot full of gravy.  “I guess it’ll have to do.”

Larry stood up, walked over to the stove, wrapped his arms around his better half’s waist and smooched her on the cheek.  “The day will never come when Lawrence T. Lumpkiss fails his little lady, be it in life or in the boudoir.”

“Oh, Larry,” Lorraine said with a smile.  “You’re incorrigible!”

Larry planted a plethora of kisses on Lorraine’s neck.  “Aren’t I though?”

Ring!

“For Pete’s sake!”  Larry said as he walked over to the phone.   He picked it up.  “Hello?  Yes.  Yes, this is Mr. Lumpkiss.  What’s that now?  Encyclopedias?  How many?  A whole set?  Why in the…well, no I don’t want my kids to grow up stupid but, hey just a second pal, what are you implying?  Well, no they aren’t rocket scientists by any stretch of the imagination but they aren’t drooling dullards either.  They get by just fine, not that it’s any of your business.  Yeah…right but…look, the thing is, they’re all grown up and hopefully almost out the door so really, this would just be a waste of money and…uh huh… for me?  Oh fella, I know it all, anyway.  Goodbye.”

Larry hanged up the phone and returned to his seat at the table.  “I tell you, whoever made it so these telephone salespeople can just call you out of the blue all night long should be tarred and feathered.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Lorraine said.

“Maybe,” Larry replied.  “Maybe I should just look up their numbers and call them at home.  Try to sell them timeshares and encyclopedias while they’re sitting down for dinner.  Now that would burn their biscuits.”

“I’m sure it would dear.”

“Gack!”

Larry looked at his old man, who was chewing on a coaster again.  “Damn it, Pop!”  Son took the coaster out of father’s mouth, seized the entire stack, stood up, and rested them on a counter.  “That’s it!  No more coasters for you!”

An ear poppingly loud guitar riff poured out from the attached garage and into the kitchen.  Mom and Dad grabbed their ears.  Pop paid it no mind as he was deaf as a post.

“Are you kidding me?!” Larry asked.

“I thought you told her not to rehearse in the garage anymore!” Lorraine cried.

“I did!”  Larry hollered.  “Looks like it didn’t take!”

Thump, thump, thump, thump, crash, crash, crash!  The sound of drums and cymbals being pounded reverberated throughout the entire house.

“Drug music!”  Larry screamed.  “I can’t believe it!  Drug music in my house!”

Out in the garage, Whitney Lumpkiss took to the microphone.  There was a bit of screechy reverb before the teenager began to sing, or more accurately, shout out random obscene words and phrases that somehow passed as punk rock lyrics.

Sexual vomit!  Sexual spit!  Puke on my soul and rearrange it!  I thought we were one.  I thought this was it!  But then it turned out to be…to be…to be….SEXUAL VOMIT!  YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

              Dogs barked all across the neighborhood.  Mr. Fitzpatrick, the Lumpkisses’ neighbor to the left, pitched a fit.  “Hey Lumpkiss!  Knock that racket off, will ya’?!”

Larry opened up a window and shouted out into the evening air.  “I got it, Phil!  Don’t you worry!”

“Well, don’t just sit there with your dick in your hand blabbing about it!” Mr. Fitzpatrick yelled.  “Do something about it!  I pay my taxes, Goddamn it!”

“I pay mine too, Phil!”

“I don’t care, Lumpkiss, just do something already!”

“I bet I pay more than you, Phil!”

Lorraine tapped her husband on the shoulder.  “Hun, now isn’t the time to get into a pissing match with Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

Larry nodded.  He looked to the table.  Pop was fast asleep, his head back, mouth open so wide that it could catch flies.

“Amazing,” Larry said.  “I wish I could sleep like that.”

The drums and guitar got louder.  The lyrics got more disgusting.  “I thought your sweet nothings were like the fragrance of a freshly cut rose!  But instead, they were just a pile of wet farts emanating from the diseased, cacophonous never regions of Satan’s asshole all along!!!”

              Mom and Dad’s jaws dropped in unison.

“Did she just say…”

“She did.”

Larry shook his head.  “Well, that tears it.  I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.”

“Don’t be too hard on her, dear.”

“Hard on her?” Larry asked.  “Are you kidding me?  A young lady talking like that?  She’s on her way to selling her goods for pennies on the dollar in a Tijuana boom boom room with a mouth like that, Lorraine.”

Lorraine nodded.  “I know, but, you know.  She’s just trying to be creative.”

“Creative, my rear end,” Larry said.  “We’ve got to nip this in the bud, Lorraine.  We’ve got to nip it and nip it good before it snowballs out of control.”

Fitzpatrick piped up again.  “I’m gonna call the cops, Lumpkiss!”

Larry stuck his head out the window.  “No need to call the cops, Phil!  I told you I’ll handle it and handle it I will!  Your peace and quiet is coming!”

“Yeah!” Fitpatrick shouted.  “So’s Christmas!”

The man of the house started banged on the door that led to the attached garage.  “Whitney!  Keep it down in there!  You hear me?!”

The music died down.  Larry wiped the sweat from his brow.  “Whew.  Good.  That’s enough of that.”

And the music started back up.  More drums.  More guitar.  More crude lyrics:

You chewed up my heart, and swallowed it into your stomach!  But all I ever got from it was….SEXUAL VOMIT!!! YEAAAAHHHHHHH!!!  SEXUAL VOMIT!  BARF, BARF, BARF, BARF, BARF, HURL, HURL, HURL, HURL, PUKE!!!”

              Larry banged on the door to the garage.  “Whitney Hildegard Lumpkiss!  This is your father!”

Lorraine rolled her eyes.  “She knows, dear.”

“Whitney!”  Larry shouted.  “I’m warning you!  Knock it off right now because if I have to come in there, you are not going to like it!  Not one bit!”

The music stopped.

“Finally,” Larry said.

Pop snoozed away.  Lorraine breathed a sigh of relief.  She set the table.

Fitzpatrick provided more commentary.  “Thank God!  You finally grew a pair, Lumpkiss!”

Larry shoved his head out the window.  “Bigger than yours, Phil!  Guaranteed!”

“Ahh!” Fitzpatrick yelled.  “Go soak your head!”

“You first!” Larry replied.

Larry pulled his head into the kitchen.  He grabbed a stack of plates and helped his wife arrange the table.  “Sexual Vomit.  What will these kids come up with next?”

“I don’t know,” Lorraine said.

“How does something like that even pop into her head?” Larry inquired.

“I have no idea,” Lorraine replied.

Larry set a plate down in front of his slumbering father.  “We ought to wash her mouth out with soap.  That’s what we ought to do.”

“Parents don’t do that to kids anymore, Larry,” Lorraine said.  “It’s not good for them.”

“Why not?” Larry asked.  “My mother did it to me all the time and I never even said anything close to that little ditty our little girl was just singing.”

“She’s not so little anymore.”

“I suppose not.”

The music started up again.  “Blood, blood, blood, blood, piss, piss, piss!  Your sexual vomit is what I will not miss!  Ejaculate spewing forth from the rotten, stinking phallus of a dead hobo’s carcass is all our love ever was and ever will be!”

Larry glared at his wife.  She nodded.  “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Larry said.

The phone rang.  Larry picked it up.  “Lumpkiss residence….oh, blow it out your ass, Phil.”

Larry slammed the phone down on the hook.  The phone rang again.  Between the ringing phone and his daughter’s profane tired set to a noise that was somehow meant to be perceived as music, the man of the house lost it.  His face turned red.  His eyes turned yellow.

“Larry, no!” cried Lorraine.

“I can’t take it anymore!”  Larry shouted.  His chest expanded, putting pressure on the buttons of his shirt.

“Just take a deep breath, dear,” Lorraine said.

Whitney belted away.  “A sensation of urination all over a slumbering heroin junkie’s hibernation is the extent of my consternation for your endless resuscitation so we must cease this mental masturbation!  We are so through and you’re the one who quit it!  So, stick your tongue down your throat and enjoy your sexual vomit!  SEXUAL VOMIT!!! YEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

              Larry’s buttons popped in every direction, clattering their way around the kitchen as they bounced off the walls.  His glasses fell to the floor.  His shirt and jeans ripped into rags as he grew and grew and grew until finally, he had become his alter ego – that of a big, brooding werewolf.”

“Grrrrrrrrrr.”

Lorraine reached over her sleepy father-in-law, grabbed the newspaper off the table, rolled it up and wacked her wolfed out husband with it, right in the snout.  “Bad boy!”

Werewolf Larry welped.  His wife lectured him, stopping to deliver intermittent newspaper beatings along the way.  “Bad boy!  Bad…bad…bad!  That’s…the third…set of clothes…you ruined…this week!”

The wolf of the house lowered his head in shame and whimpered.  Lorraine kissed him on his cold nose.  “Oh, I can’t stay mad at you.  Go on!  Go into the bathroom and calm down.”

Hubby nodded and trudged into the living room.  His wife called after him.  “And whatever you do, don’t sit on the sofa, Larry!  I just vacuumed it!”

Larry woofed in response.

Lorraine put on her oven mitts, retrieved the casserole from the oven, then set the hot dish on the table.

The music continued.  “Wandering eye sockets of the destroyer of worlds longing to be ravished by the incoming tide of a fleeting inflection of an erection that belongs to neither me nor you but rather to a nation ruled by neither king nor queen and no amount of sexual vomit will replenish our love’s once lusty sheen!  Sexual vomit!  Yeah!  SEXUAL VOMIT!  YEAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

“Oh Whitney,” Lorraine mumbled to herself.  “You’re in for it now.”

As Sweet Johnny Sugarshine’s Disco Power Hour waned towards a conclusion, the Emcee of Funk himself took to the floor, microphone in hand.  He was in his favorite place now – directly in front of a camera.

“Hello again, my babies.  I hope you enjoyed those commercial messages and Mom, don’t forget to get on down to the grocery store and buy yourself a big old box of Shine-O brand dishwasher powder.  It leaves your dishes so clean that…well, you could eat dinner off of them.  And we all know how much dear old Daddio loves a clean dish.  Ladies, you’ll get your old man’s smooch of approval as long as you wash your greasy plates with Shine-O.”

Sweet Johnny looked into another camera.  All the revelers were standing on the sidelines, listening to the Duke’s every word.  “Now my babies, has your old pal, Sweet Johnny Sugarshine, ever got some news for you.  As you know, this program already beats out all the other programs on local cable access.  Just like the Feisty Chef food processor, another one of our proud sponsors, it slices and dices Count Freddy’s Super Spooky Friday Night Creature Double Feature, and it juliennes Civic Discourse with Edna Delvecchio.  We’ve always been the top show to watch for disco fans in New York City and the surrounding communities.  But now, I’m proud to say that viewers have been tuning in with such great gusto that we’ve been picked up by a national network.  That’s right babies.  Starting next month, you’ll be able to switch on your boob tube and watch Sweet Johnny Sugarshine’s Disco Power Hour from sea to shining sea.  You can watch it in Boston while you’re spooning up some clam chowder all the way to California, where you can watch it after a nice day spent frolicking in the surf.  Get comfortable America, and get funky, because the Duke of Disco is comin’ at ya.’”

Thunderous applause.  Sweet Johnny waved at Disco Werewolf, bidding the dog man to join the Duke on camera.

“By the way, babies, I just want to thank Disco Werewolf, because without this fella, my show would have never gotten this far.  DW, take a bow, baby.”

Disco Werewolf did what he did best.  “Ahhhwooo!”

The crowd loved it.

“Aww, you’re a sex machine on white wall tires, Disco Werewolf and the worst part is you know it baby,” Sweet Johnny said.  “I know you had your choice of discotheques and I am honored that you chose mine to call your own.  And to all you at home, I know you turn your dial to this channel to see Sweet Johnny, but I also know you stick around to watch this big palooka shake his groove thing.”

More applause.

“Now, we’ve seen some great dance offs tonight in our never-ending series of disco competitions.  We oooed as Misty Folderol trounced Debbie Dakota and we ahhed as Hustle Charlie Russel gave it his all against Big Red Stedman.  But now, ladies and gents, I have a question.”

A hushed silence came over the crowd.

“That’s right,” Sweet Johnny said.  “The King of the Swing, the Sultan of Soul, the Emcee of Funk and the Duke of Disco, yours truly, Sweet Johnny Sugarshine, has a question.  Is anyone in here man enough, or dare I even say, woman enough, to take on the one, the only, the criminally stylish and mesmerizingly alluring Disco Werewolf on the dance floor?”

No one raised a hand.

“Come on,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Don’t leave a brother hanging.  Surely, someone, somewhere, has the guts to go toe to toe with this bad ass mofo?”

No takers.

“Huh,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Isn’t it ironic then, that the coolest cat in all of Manhattan just so happens to be a dog?”

Disco Werewolf enjoyed that line, so much so that he howled again.  “Ahhwooo!”

“You know what, babies?” Sweet Johnny asked.  “As it turns out, I know someone.”

Sweet Johnny paced the floor, looking to different cameras as he spoke.  “Yes, I know someone who has been down in the dumps lately.  Face down in the muck of his own personal, existential crisis, trying to figure out who he is in a world he feels just won’t let him be his own damn self anymore.”

The crowd began to murmur.

“I know a man who loved to dance and his fancy footwork once gave him purpose,” Sweet Johnny said.  “I know a man who once ate, slept and breathed disco but now, he looks at it as though it were his long lost, estranged child.  He loves it, but he isn’t sure what to say to it anymore.”

Sweet Johnny looked at the bar.  “Boogiedown Barry, I’m talking about you, baby.”

Barry looked up from his sixth drink of the evening.  “Huh?”

“Come on, Barry,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Get on over here.”

A spotlight hit Barry in the face.  “What?  Nah.”

“Boogiedown Barry needs your encouragement, gang,” Sweet Johnny said.  He started a chant.  “Boogiedown.  Boogiedown.  Boogiedown.”

The crowd followed the host.  “Boogiedown.  Boogiedown.  Boogiedown.”

Barry guzzled the drink and pounded the glass on the bar.  “Ahh, what the hell?”

“You will fail,” Ferdinand said.  “You are no match for Disco Werewolf, Boogiedown Fairy.”

“Suck my short hairs,” Barry said as he strutted to the dance floor.

There they were.  Three of the biggest names in disco, right on camera.  Sweet Johnny Sugarshine smiled at the camera.  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and children of all ages, put your hands together and sit yourself on the edge of your seat, because tonight, you’re in for a real treat.  Coming at you from Sweet Johnny Sugarshine’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge and available for your viewing pleasure on televisions located throughout the greater city area, New Jersey, and parts of Connecticut, it’s the long-awaited showdown we’ve all been waiting for.

Sweet Johnny pointed at Barry.  “In this corner, we have the club’s former disco dance champion.  He reigned supreme for nearly a decade until he was done in by our favorite furball, give it up for Boogiedown Barry.”

This time, the crowd did not comply.  Various and sundry unkind words were shouted, the least cruel of which included, “Boooo!” and “You suck!” and “Kill yourself, Barry!”

Barry enjoyed his new role as a heel.  He raised his fist and made a thumbs down gesture at the crowd, then pointed at Disco Werewolf.  “You’re going down, you glorified poodle!”

Sweet Johnny pointed at Disco Werewolf.  “Does this cat even need an introduction?”

Nope.  “Wooo!” the crowded shouted.  “Disco Werewolf!  We love you!”

The host pointed to the stage.  “Babies, I’m pleased to announce that Miss Boo Boo Larue was so inspired when she heard about the antics of our resident dance hound a few months ago, wrote a new song that’s guaranteed to be all over your radio soon, but lucky you, you get to hear it her first.  Here’s Boo Boo Larue and the Starlight Crew, performing for the first time ever, Disco Werewolf.”

              The house lights dimmed.  The disco ball twinkled.  The squares on the floor lit up and blinked away through different colors.  A drum beat was pounded.  The hi-hat guitar was strummed.  The keyboard’s ivories were tickled.

Barry pointed at Disco Werewolf.  The fuzzy one folded his arms and watched as Barry swayed his hips to the groove.  Next, Barry stepped forward, then back.  Forward, then back.  He clapped his hands, then forward, then back.  Soon enough, he was slipping to one side, then the other.  He repeated this pattern as Boo Boo took to the mic:

Midnight is coming!

              And so is the moon!

              When it gets full,

              My heart’s going to swoon.

              Yeah, he’s a frisky ladies’ man,

              Out to get all the girls he can.

              When oh when will it be,

              When he takes a bite out of me?

 

              Barry dropped to the floor, catching himself on his hands, which were now behind his back.  He kicked his left foot, then his right.  Left, then right.  He let go of the floor, then spinned around and around on his backside, before coming to a full stop in a lounge pose, with his fist balled up under his chin as though he were lost in thought.

Boo Boo carried on with her refrain:

Disco Werewolf!  Whoa, uh oh oh!  Disco Werewolf!  Werewolf!

The backup chorus singers howled in unison:

Ahhhwooo!

              Now it was Disco Werewolf’s turn.  He performed all the moves Barry had done, then added a few more.  First, he rolled his paws around and around, then folded them, and squatted up and down on his legs, jumping about like a frog.  Next, he pointed to the crowd and thrusted his pelvis from one side to the next.  He wrapped it all up with a belly flop in which he fell to the floor and squirm about like a fish out of water.

Boo Boo kept singing:

I searched every graveyard!

              All the spooky mansions too.

              On the hunt for Disco Werewolf.

              It’s what a girl’s gotta do.

              Disco Werewolf baby,

              Won’t you ever see?

              I’m the one for you,

              ‘Cuz there ain’t no fleas on me!”

             

Boogiedown Barry had now seen Disco Werewolf’s moves up close and personal.  It dawned on the ex-champ that he wasn’t dealing with just some lowly, rank amateur with a cool gimmick.  No.  DW was the real thing, and Barry would have to bring his best and then some.

 

Barry performed all previous movies, then wowed the crowed when he back flipped onto the floor, landed on his hands, and walked around on his palms for a bit before flipping over to his feet.  He then licked his finger and made a “Psshhhht” sound as he touched his own ass.  He twirled like a top for ten spins, then stopped on a dime.  He did one more back flip and this time, he landed on one and only one hand, supporting his entire body weight with it for twenty seconds before returning to his feet.

 

Though the crowd preferred Disco Werewolf to Barry, they didn’t hold out on credit where it was due.  They gave Barry an assortment of “aoohs” and “ahhs.”  His ego adored it.

 

Boo Boo sang her refrain:

 

Disco Werewolf!  Whoa, uh oh oh! Disco Werewolf!  Werewolf!

 

              And the chorus girls howled:

 

Ahhwooo!

 

              Disco Werewolf hocked a loogie into his paws and greased them up.  He then performed all previous moves, plus a mid-air kung-fu style kick.  Some cartwheels, followed by some one-legged hops, a slide to the left, a slide to the right.  He finished his turn off by jumping into the air only to land on his head with so much force that it would break the neck of a normal man.  It didn’t phase Disco Werewolf though, for he spun around and around on his cranium much to the crowd’s delight.

 

Barry appeared displeased by that move.  He stuck a finger into his shirt collar and let it out, as though he were releasing trapped hot air.

 

Boo Boo carried on:

 

Wrap me up in your furry paws!

              And kiss me with your stinky breath!

              When Disco Werewolf sniffs on my drawers,

              I’ll never, ever fear death!

              Disco Werewolf, I’ve been waiting my entire life,

              For a love as sweet as you!

              Come on over and end my strife.

              What’s a girl who loves a Disco Werewolf to do?

 

Disco watched patiently, waiting to see if Barry would cop out.  Surely, a mere mortal would not be able to recreate such a vicious head spin.

 

Barry looked nervous.  He wiped beads of sweet from his brow, then performed all previous moves.  When it was time for the head spin, he nailed it…flawlessly.  He landed the entire weight of his body on his skull, then spun around and around.

 

The crowd erupted in a fit of applause, the levels of which had usually been reserved for Disco Werewolf.  Barry hammed it up by strutting around the floor like a peacock, high fiving several fans on the sidelines.  He then shook his hip to the left, and pointed to the right.  Then he shook his hip to the right and pointed to the left.  He did this for awhile before he landed on the floor in a perfect split, then with just as much as, leapt right back up to his feet with his arms stretched out as if to say, Ta da!

 

              Boo Boo let out her refrain:

 

Disco Werewolf!  Whoa, uh oh oh!  Disco Werewolf!  Werewolf!

 

              And the chorus girls backed Boo Boo up once more:

 

Ahhwoo!

 

              This was it.  No backing out now.  The song was heading towards the big finish and it was up to Disco to bring it home.  He walked out to the dance floor.  He slid one hip to the left, then pointed a finger at Barry.  He slid one hip to the right, then pointed a finger at the crowd.  He slid his hips to the left, then the right, then pointed up to the disco ball.  The crowd went berserk.

 

Disco Werewolf performed all previous moves.  Next, he plunged down to his knees, and like a spring, ejected himself high above the floor, so high that he was able to slurp the disco ball with his pink tongue.  He landed on his feet, then backflipped backwards three times.  He backflipped forwards another three times and then finally, he performed a running jump into a slide then took him from one side of the floor to the other.  When he reached the end, he let out his signature howl.  “Ahhhwoo!”

 

The crowd joined.  “Ahhwoo!”

 

Boo Boo finished the song:

 

Disco Werewolf, you may be the mutt,

              But you’ve got me panting.

              Thinking about your furry butt,

              Has got me ranting!

              You’re a sexy, furry creature that I need in my bed!

              Kiss me once, kiss me twice, and love me so true.

              Hold me tight and protect me from the undead!

              Oh, Disco Werewolf baby, don’t you know I love you?

 

              Disco Werewolf!  Whoa, uh oh oh, Disco Werewolf!  Werewolf!

 

              One last howl from the chorus:

 

Ahhwhoo!

 

              Applause.  The dancers took to opposite sides of the floor while Sweet Johnny stepped out and addressed the camera.  “Wow!  How was that, babies?  Was that not just ten tons of TNT with a lit fuse set to go kapowie?!”

 

“Woooo!”  went the crowd.

 

“OK,” Sweet Johnny said.  “We only have a few minutes left, so I’m going to let the crowd make the call.  Ladies and gentlemen, if you think that Boogiedown Barry won this contest, make some noise.”

 

Barry put his hand up to his ear, taking in all the claps and cheers.  There were even a few random shout outs.  “Barry!  You’re back!”  and “You don’t suck as much as you used to, Barry!  Yeah!”

 

When the applause died down, Sweet Johnny spoke into his mic.  “Hmm.  I think you’re back in the people’s good graces, Barry.”

 

“It’s a good place to be, Johnny,” Barry said.

 

“That it is,” Sweet Johnny said.  “That it surely is.  And now, judges, if you think Disco Werewolf won, show him some love, will you?”

 

The fans lost their minds.  They clapped till their hands turned red.  They cheered at the top of the lungs.  One woman shouted out a demand that Disco Werewolf perform a very unsavory act in a very private part of her body.  The comment was so lewd that Sweet Johnny knew he’d have to get a technician to cut it out of the show’s late night rebroadcast.

 

“I’m sorry Boogiedown Barry,” Sweet Johnny said.  “You were good but…”

 

The Duke of Disco grabbed Disco Werewolf’s paw and raised it. “…this wolf was better.  Disco Werewolf, ladies and gentlemen, the reigning disco champion!”

As the crowd cheered, Sweet Johnny looked at Boogiedown Barry with a sense of great wonder and puzzlement.  The Duke of Disco expected Barry to frown but instead, he was being an incredible sport.  Barry joined the crowd in giving DW a hand and then, a miracle happened.

 

Yes, Boogiedown Barry, who, for months, had been professing his intense hatred of all things Disco Werewolf to anyone who would listen, wrapped the champ up in his arms and gave him a warm embrace, even going so far as to bury his head on DW’s chest.

 

“You’re the best, Disco Werewolf,” Barry said.  “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

 

Disco Werewolf looked to Sweet Johnny.  Man and beast traded shocked glances.  Disco Werewolf shrugged his shoulders, patted Barry’s perm, then cocked his head back into the air for one more howl.  “Ahhwoo!”

For those who had never been inside before, stepping into Sweet Johnny Sugarshine’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge was like landing on another plant.  The sights, the sounds, everything tantalized the senses.  The dance floor was made of thousands of individual squares, each one blinking a different color of the rainbow.  A disco ball hovered from the ceiling, bathing the room in a glow of twinkly lights.

Dancers in the gawdiest outfits moved to the beat.  Spins, turns, flips, they were all trying to outdo each other.  At the bar, booze flowed freely, with no one caring if anyone was overserved.

The house DJ took to the microphone to make an announcement.  “Good evening all you cats and kittens!  If you’re having a good time, let me hear you make some noise!”

The dancers roared with excitement.

“Now, clear the floor if you please, because it’s time to say hello to your host with the most,” the DJ said.  “He’s held many titles in his life.  Some call him the King of Swing or the Emcee of Funk.  Others, the Sultan of Soul.  But today, you know him best as the Duke of Disco…the one, the only…Sweet Johnny Sugarshine!”

Throughout the club, men stood behind massive cameras, recording all the action.

Poof!  A cloud of smoke erupted in the center of the dance floor.  This bought some time for a trap door to open that allowed the club’s proprietor to rise up on a moving platform.  Once the smoke cleared, it was as if he had magically appeared out of thin air.

Sweet Johnny Sugarshine was a dashing man in his early 30s.  From head to toe, his suit was golden, with the chains around his neck to match. His afro stood tall above his head and he had a smile so wide that it was hard to stay sad in its presence.

“Well, hello there my babies,” the host said into a microphone.

“Hello Johnny!” the dancers replied in unison.

“I hope you’re all having a good time in my Electrostatic Groove Lounge,” Sweet Johnny said.  “I wouldn’t have let you in had I not seen something special in each and everyone of you.”

“Wooo!” the dancers answered.

“You know, it’s funny,” Sweet Johnny said.  “About six months ago, the local cable access station came to me and said, “Johnny baby, we got to do something for all the people who will just never be hip enough to get down in your fly pad, you dig?”

Sweet Johnny strutted about the floor.  “And so I said, ‘Sure I dig.  What are we gonna do?’  And the cable people, and by the way, babies, if you haven’t hooked your television up to cable yet then you need to do so because let me tell you, being able to see cinema quality movies in the comfort of your own home is a real gas but let’s not get off track.  The cable people said, ‘Hell, Johnny baby, we’re gonna give you your own show.’”

“Wooo!” went the crowd.

Sweet Johnny looked directly into one of the cameras.  “So, to all your wallflowers at home, go on.  Get out of your Barcalounger and get some pep in your step, because it’s time for the festivities Sweet Johnny Sugarshine’s Disco Power Hour to commence!”

Across the club, the spotlight hit a main stage.  A group of musicians wearing bright colors played their instruments.  A breathtakingly gorgeous woman took stepped up to the microphone.  Her dress was white and covered with flashy gems.  Her eyelashes were long, her blonde hair stacked high on her head and she was revealing a staggering amount of cleavage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Put your hands together and give it up for Boo Boo Larue and the Starlight Crew.  They’re here all week and right now they’re going to lay down their latest hot track.  Don’t you dare put your finger on it because if you do, it’s going to be scalded. That’s how hot it is.  Here’s Boo Boo with Love Another.”

              Boo Boo’s lips pressed out the lyrics:

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.

             

              While all the action was broadcast live throughout the Tri-State area, Sweet Johnny switched off his microphone and moseyed on over to the bar.  There, his signature gin and tonic was already waiting for him.  It was on the rocks, just the way he liked it.

 

Moments later, a tall man, slender man in platform shoes bellied up to the bar.  He wore a silk, floral-patterned shirt, opened at the top to reveal a lush patch of rugged chest hair.  A golden medallion rested prominently on the patch.  His hide was covered by a pair of baby blue bell bottom jeans which were held up by a wide, white belt.  His golden hair was done up in a gravity defying perm.

 

Was the man happy or sad?  No one could tell his mood as his eyes were hidden away behind a pair of smoky colored shades.  He did carry an air of depression about him though, which was surprising, as he was in the company of two bodacious babes.

 

The bartender brought the man his usual – a pink cosmopolitan with a tiny little umbrella sticking out of it.  He sat and sipped in silence as the ladies ran their hands over his chest hair.

Five minutes passed.  Boo Boo moved on to another song while the patrons danced the night away.  Finally, Sweet Johnny cut the tension.  “Boogiedown Barry.  Are you seriously going to sit there like the saddest sack of turnips to ever fall off the back of the truck and ignore the Duke of Disco all evening?”

 

Barry scoffed.  “Ha.  Duke of Disco.  I’ve seen you dance, Johnny.  You’ve got two-left feet and all the rhythm of a rampaging rhino.  If anyone should be the Duke of Disco, it should be me.”

 

“Oh, here we go,” Sweet Johnny said.  “The green-eyed monster rears its ugly head once again.”

 

“You think I’m jealous?”  Barry asked.

Sweet Johnny swirled a swizzle stick around the inside of his glass.  “I know you are, daddio.  I can read it all over your face like a cheap dime store romance novel, baby.  Why don’t you take a deep breath, exhale all your resentments and let them go, before they eat you alive?”

Barry laughed.  “That’s rich.  You talk like a big man, but we both know you’d be nothing without me.”

“You think so?”  Sweet Johnny asked.

“I know so,” Barry replied.  “This club was nothing before I came along.  I could have danced anywhere, but I chose to dance here.  I liked your digs.  I thought it had a special savoir-faire, a certain je ne sais quoi.  But my moves brought the people out, Johnny.  If it weren’t for me, this place would have never gotten through its first year.”

Sweet Johnny sighed.  He reached over and rubbed Barry’s shoulder.  “You’re not wrong, hep cat, and for you’re the many funky dance moves you busted on my floor, I will be forever grateful, but you and my old man are cut from the same cloth.”

“Please,” Barry said.  “I’m nothing like that square.”

“You don’t think so?”  Sweet Johnny asked.  “Let me lay the straight skinny down on your head, you broke ass hustler.  There was a time when anyone who was anyone wanted to be caught alive inside the Dandy Haberdashery.  Jazz was all the rage but music fans are a fickle lot and once rock and roll took over, my old man refused to change with the times.  He kept trying to push Jazz on a public that was buying until he ended up in the poorhouse and he was just like you, ragging on me for being a sell-out.”

“You are a sell-out,” Barry said.  “You sold me out to a damn, dirty werewolf.”

Sweet Johnny held up a single finger.  “Rule number one of show business, baby.  Give the people what they want.  You hear the people ask for something, be the one who gives it to them and they’ll love you.  Give them something else and you’ll be tossed out into the trash can like yesterday’s rotten meatloaf.”

“What are you saying?” Barry asked.  “That I’m rotten meatloaf?”

“I’m saying that if the people wanted Boogiedown Barry, I’d give them Boogiedown Barry.  But they don’t want Boogiedown Barry no more baby.  They want Disco Werewolf.  The sooner you get that fact through your thick head, the better.”

“I hate that werewolf,” Barry said.

Sweet Johnny pulled a pack of smokes out of his jacket.  He offered one to Barry, who passed.  He took one for himself and lit up.  “Hate is a strong word.  And besides, doesn’t the world already have more than enough hate to go around already?”

“It could always use a little more,” Barry said.  “What about the dance competitions?  Those were my idea.  Those got people coming here.  Every geek off the street thinking they would come here, shake a leg, and be the next newly discovered star.”

“Those were your idea,” Sweet Johnny said.  “And I thank you.  I also never told you to stop competing in them.”

Barry downed his drink, pounded the glass down on the bar, then ordered another. “Bah! Like I could ever beat Disco Werewolf!”

“You need to stop letting Disco Werewolf live inside your head, dude,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Stop comparing yourself to that sexy dance monster and be your own man.”

“I can’t,” Barry said as he slurped his new drink.  “Disco Werewolf has ruined my life.”

Sweet Johnny shook his head in disgust.  “Fame is a fickle mistress, Barry.  Today she loves one cat, tomorrow another.  Hell, last decade, every red-blooded American male wanted to nail Elizabeth Taylor to the wall and now?  That old crone can’t give it away.  You think she sits around her big house, drinking and lamenting because everyone wants to stick it to Faye Dunaway now?”

Barry glared at Sweet Johnny, who instantly nodded in agreement.  “OK.  Bad example.  But you get the gist.  The glamour life is a great big game and we’re all players, baby.  When the game’s going your way, life is sweet than candy.  But when it all starts to go south, life is as bitter as a dill pickle.  At that point, you can either reinvent yourself and come back as something that all the other players want, or you can right off into the sunset like a sad yet, dignified cowboy, confident that you did all you can do in this life and you’ve got nothing left to prove.  Or you can just do what you’re doing right now and be a big crybaby about it.”

Without skipping a beat, Barry instantly replied, “Waah.”

“Whatever,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Don’t hate the werewolf, baby.  Hate the game.”

“I’ll hate that werewolf as much as I damn well please,” Barry said.  “He ruined my life.”

“I give up,” Sweet Johnny said.  “You have literally not comprehended a single word I have said.  Just count your blessings, Barry.  Look at you.  You got your looks.  You got your style.  You got your fine ladies.  At least Disco Werewolf can’t take that away from you.”

A howl came from somewhere high up in the rafters.  “Ahh-woo!  Arr, arr, ahh-wooo!”

The dancers went absolutely bonkers, totally out of control with excitement and anticipation.  The ladies pulled their hands away from Barry’s chest.

The DJ took to the microphone.  “Uh, oh, cats and kittens.  Did you hear that?”

Another howl.  “Ahh-wooo!”

“Disco Werewolf has entered the building,” the DJ said.  “I repeat, ‘Disco Werewolf has entered the building!’”

“Oh my God!” gasped the first of Barry’s galpals.  “Is Disco Werewolf really here?”

One more howl.  “Ahh-woo!”

The second lady grabbed the first lady’s hand.  “Come on!  We’ve got to find him!”

“Oh!” the first lady cried.  “I hope he’ll dance with me!”

And with that, the ladies bolted.  Barry flashed Sweet Johnny an I told you so face.

Sweet Johnny sipped his drink.  “Alright, baby.  I stand corrected.”

The Duke of Disco reached into his pocket, pulled out a few bills, and left them on the bar as a tip.  He then pointed at the sad sack.  “Even so, Boogiedown Barry, you got more pussy in your life than most men don’t get in a hundred lifetimes, so this funk you’re in is all on you.  Get your head on right and you’ll be feeling dynamite and out of sight.”

“Yeah,” Barry said.  “Whatever you say, Sultan of Something or Other.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Barry said as he straightened his color.  “I must mingle with my public.

Sweet Johnny didn’t get very far into his mingle when he was approached by a young lady holding a notebook and pen.  She was dressed way too conservatively for such a swinging establishment.  It wasn’t like she was dressed like a Grandma on her way to church or anything.  She just wore a simple striped polo shirt and a pair of tan khaki pants.

“Mr. Sugarshine?  Can I have a word?”

“Oh Lord,” Sweet Johnny said.  “Not you again.”

Out front, the hot neon pink and yellow sign read “Sweet Johnny’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge.”  The line to get in stretched back for an entire city block.  Ecstasy Sublime, the notorious drag queen turned doorwoman, was notoriously picky when it came to selecting entrants.  After all, dancing the night away in the Big Apple’s premiere discotheque was considered by many (rightly or wrongly) to be a life changing experience.  Ergo, the honor couldn’t be bestowed upon just anyone.

Ecstasy wore a shiny, sparkly dress adorned with thousands of glittering sequins.  Her red wig stood a full two feet above her head and her makeup left her cheeks looking full and rosy.  Alas, there simply wasn’t a thing she could do about her Adam’s apple.

“I am so sorry, darling, but you simply are not on tonight’s list.”

“Well,” said a young man in his late teens with long hair.  “Check again.”

The doorwoman sighed.  “Sweetie, I can play the check it again game all night but truth be told, only the people who pique Mr. Sugarshine’s interest are allowed in the club and look at you.  You haven’t even had enough time on this earth to do anything remotely interesting, let alone appear as the tiniest blip on the Emcee of Funk’s radar.”

Ecstasy looked up and to the left, taking in the stoic face of the club’s bouncer, Bruno, who was six foot five and three hundred pounds of solid muscle, all stuffed into a black t-shirt and jeans.

“Oh dear,” the doorwoman said as she turned back just in time to see the lad’s face scrunch up.  The kid was choking back his own tears, trying but failing at the task of maintaining a manly façade.

“Tough love,” Ecstasy said.  “This is the part of my job that I hate with the passion of a thousand red hot fiery sons.  I really do.  I’m sorry, honey. Do you need a tissue?”

“No,” the young man said.  “It’s just, we’ve been waiting here for hours, you could have posted a sign or something.”

“Waiting in line for hours to be rejected at the door of Sweet Johnny’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge is one of the greatest experiences a New Yorker will ever achieve, child,” Ecstasy said.  “You’re not even a real New Yorker if you haven’t been told to get lost at the door at least three times so, let me help you with your first.”

Ecstasy put her hand on the youngster’s arm.  “Get lost, buttercup.”

The young man’s face turned red with anger.  “No!  I’m not going anywhere!”

A pretty blonde girl tugged on the kid’s arm.  She wore a little black dress, with blue eyeshadow.  “Come on, Derrick.  We tried.  Let’s go get pancakes.”

“Oh, yes,” Ecstasy said.  “Do go get pancakes, Derrick.  And don’t even think about coming back until you’re somehow relevant to the cultural zeitgeist of our fair city or at the very least, until you’ve done something about that hair.”

“What?” asked Derrick as he grabbed his locks.  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing,” the girl said.

“No, Wendy,” Derrick said.  “I want to know.”

“It’s what they do,” Wendy said.  “They dump on everyone trying to get in, right?”

“It’s true,” Ecstasy said.  “I’m such a catty bitch, aren’t I, Bruno dear?”

Bruno was a man of few words.  “Errm.”

“Oh, my stars,” Ecstasy said.  “It would appear that Bruno is losing his patience, so if would skedaddle dear, I have to inform more people how they have failed themselves and how they might improve.”

The drag queen held the back of her hand across her forehead, pretending as though she might faint.  “Zounds, I say! A doorwoman’s work is never done!”

Wendy laughed.  Derrick wasn’t in the mood for humor.  He pulled out his wallet, retrieved two green portraits of Ulysses S. Grant and handed them over.  Ecstasy looked at them.  She handed one to Bruno, then folded the other and tucked it into her tissue stuffed bra.

“Thank you, doll,” Ecstasy said.  “Now be on your way.”

Derrick gasped.  “What?  But I just gave you…”

“I know,” Ecstasy said.  “And gratuities are always so humbly appreciated but seriously, kid, stop darkening my doorstep.”

“Fine,” Derrick said as he held out his hand.  “Just give it back.”

Ecstasy held her hand up to her ear.  “I beg your pardon?  I seem to have developed a nasty case of selective hearing loss.”

“I want my money back!”  Derrick griped.

“Huh?” Ecstasy asked.

A sound coming from high above the street broke the tension.  “Ahhwoo!”

Ecstasy clutched her tacky costume jewelry.  “Heavens to Betsy! Could it be…”

Bruno grabbed one of the two spotlights that had been shining into the air and pointed it at the top of the building across the street.  In doing so, he illuminated a character who was seven feet tall.  He wore a white leisure suit, a black shirt with a popped collar.

Also, he was a damn werewolf.

“Arr…arr..arrwooo!”

The line cheered as the beast, with all the grace of a ballerina,  leapt ten stories downard, only to land on his feet, completely unscathed.  As he crossed the street, he did a few twists and turns.  Fans hooted, hooted and hollered.  Cameras flashed.  An adoring female voice cried out from the crowd, “I love you, Disco Werewolf!”

Disco Werewolf pointed to the vicinity of where the voice came from, winked, then right there in the street, he cocked his hip to one side, pointed a finger in the air, and struck a pose.  The crowd ate it up.

When he was done hamming it up for the masses, the lewd and lascivious Lycan moseyed on over to Ecstasy and came to a complete stop.

“Disco Werewolf!” Ecstasy cried.  “Look at you!  You’re fun!  You’re funky!  You’re astounding and you absolutely ooze gallons of fabulosity from each and every one of your pores.  Tell me your secret, darling.  How did you become so stunningly spectacular?”

The furry man of the hour cocked backed his head and howled into the moonlight.  “Awoooooo!”

The line erupted with a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Woo hoo!”  Another female voice shouted, “Disco Werewolf!  I want to have your baby!”

“I understand,” Ecstasy said.  “A maestro never reveals the inner workings of his concerto.  I guess you’ll just have to remain a mystery, and a downright sexy one of that.”

Disco Werewolf growled.

“Are you on the list?”  Ecstasy asked.  “What kind of a question is that?  You are beyond the list, baby.  You’ve got a standing invitation from Mr. Sugarshine every night of the week.  You know that.  Go on in and get down with your bad self.”

Derrick was displeased.  “Wait!  I’ve been out here all night and I can’t get in, but this guy can just waltz right in and…”

Ecstasy held up her hand in a stop motion.  “And he can do whatever he pleases, as is the want of a Disco Werewolf.”

The drag queen looked into the monster’s yellow eyes.  “Don’t mind the lowly rabble, DW darling.  They know not what they say or what they do.”

Disco Werewolf barked.  He surveyed the line.  He stretched out a pointer finger.  He pointed at a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a couple of black girls, a couple of Asian girls.  His finger moved about, selecting one girl after the next until it wavered in front of Wendy.

“No!”  Derrick said.  “Don’t you do it.”

Disco Werewolf pointed at Derrick’s girlfriend.

“Right then,” Ecstasy said as she lifted up the velvet rope.  “Come along, ladies.  It’s your lucky night.  If Disco Werewolf says you’re the bee’s knees, then who is a tired old mother hen like yours truly to argue?”

The hotties were beside themselves with excitement as they abandoned the line and rushed in.  Meanwhile, a look of confusion overtook Wendy’s face.  She looked at the club, then at Derrick, the club, then Derrick.

“Time’s a wastin,’” Ecstasy said.

“Really, Wendy?”  Derrick asked.

“I’m sorry!”  Wendy said.  “But it’s Disco Werewolf!”

Wendy hightailed it inside.  Disco Werewolf blew kisses to the crowd then followed.  Ecstasy put the rope down just in time to keep Derrick from entering.

“Hey!”  Derrick said.  “Come on!  My girlfriend is in there!”

“I’m sorry, hun,” Ecstasy said.  “But there are a lot of men’s girlfriends in there.”