Every time I see "Blind Lemon Catastrophe" I like it better as a band name. It's actually pretty much evokative of the sort of band I would want to form. The style would be a sort of hybrid of blues, metal, psychadelia, and grunge. Think unplugged Nirvana mixed with plugged-in Dylan with some Clapton, Hendrix, Floyd (both with and without Syd), Zepplin, Sabbath, and Ray Charles thrown in there. Our cover of Crossroads would end with Robert Johnson playing the blues in Hell (for those who don't know, the song, at least as it was performed by Cream, is about the legend that Johnson sold his soul to the devil for mastery of the guitar). So thank you again Jemima for tagging me.
Of course, any of that coming to fruition is a long ways off as I still omit the solos in most of the songs I play. But damn, is that a band I wish existed now. Maybe it would just be best to hold Eric Clapton, Roger Waters, Bob Dylan, Robert Plant and Dave Grohl hostage until they form it.
Speaking of music, I've been listening to a lot of Aerosmith lately. I need to have a word with the people who've tried to tell me that they're not a good band. Honkin' on Bobo is especially a fantastic album, and I intend to learn a good number of the songs from it.
Also. I will not tell it at the moment, but there is, in fact, a story to the allusion I made a few posts back about a rehearsal being "interesting" It will be related here, though. perhaps in my next post. As it is, the state of affairs is looking rather bleak, but I'll save that also for the next post as it is sort of connected.
Anyways, I said in an earlier thread that I was going to respond to all of Jromer's prompts. I've decided to do so as if it were a noir-ish miniseries. I've finished the first two, and the latter two will be forthcoming, and they will be in fact added to this post where the first and last lines of the prompts are now.
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I refused to name the cat moriarty. It was bad enough that she wanted this guy knocked off by a cat. I'll do specialty jobs any day. But that Sherlock Holmes shit is at odds with my style. And you don't fuck with the way a professional does his work.
My orders were specific. A straight up, loud and proud sendoff.
Using a fucking cat.
You'd better believe she had deep pockets.
I kicked in the door to find him in the middle of his morning routine, as expected. Which is to say I caught him with his pants down. In front of the TV. With Antiques Road Show on. I threw the cat where it would do most damage. Not that it terribly mattered. It's claws were envenomed. I walked out. The image was burning in my mind and I got the idea that was going to have to be forced out with a more palpable pain.
she offered to pay for the tattoo.
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Never trust a doorman. Especially not mine. My building is not the sort you would expect to even have a doorman. And it didn't have one. Not officially at least. The fucker who took on the appearance of the position wasn't on payroll. I don't think anyone else knows that aside from my landlady, and she's not about to advertise the fact, as it draws tennants. Newcomers who don't know him for his true nature. He supports himselves on the tips; the bribes to look the other way. The larger ones to spill what someone else paid him not to spill. The double-crosses. The triple-crosses. The entire building was tangled in his web. Except for me. Because I knew his secret. And I've known it from the begginning. So his attempts to get dirt on me, while I won't say they'd been fruitless because when the fuck can you ever be certain of that, had I can only imagine turned up little. Which means he needed to watch his ass around me.
But of course, all weasels will ruin their game when they overstep their bounds. And they hate it when someone has the upper hand on them.
I was at my door, just about to take in my groceries one day, when I realized I left something in the car. As I turned and descended I heard a cough at the other side of my door. I went back to my car, punching the doorman in the throat as I left the building. I grabbed the carton I was missing, and my shotgun. Back at my apartment, I cleaned the room of scum, and later of blood, then put my groceries away. That's why orange juice is good for you.
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So i've heard he has a sixth toe. And in fact that was a part of the job. I was under strict orders. Return with his foot and his personal effects. I hate the fucking amatuers in this buisiness. Before they started fucking things up we never had to jump through those goddamned hoops to prove we'd done the job. Oh yeah. And one of them tried to take him out already. Spooked him. He started hanging out in pediatrician's offices.
I rolled in with a glowstick, a plastic cup, a rag, and a bottle.
Broke the glowstick into the cup and discarded it. Walked into the office. Tripped and spilled it on him. Sat down and waited for fifteen minutes.
I thumbed the button on my keychain. Over at the main breaker, a gadget I'd installed took out the power. My mark made a break for it, but he was, well, marked. The cloroform did its work. Back in my basement I finished the job. I noticed he'd stowed some magazine that he took from the office in his bag. Weird. Wait no... wow... It was a vintage 1899 Spiegel catalog. He must have brought it with him. But I'd seen him reading it back in the waiting room. I cracked it open. Rather than dresses and curtains and such, there were blueprints. Lots of blueprints. So now I know why they wanted his effects. But they clearly didn't want me to know that. Which means I wanted to know more. I photocopied the pages for my files. I had a feeling they'd be of use to me. Who knew an old spiegel catalog could be so fascinating
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My landlady sells heroin on the side. Which is actually convenient for business. A lot of potential marks stop by as much as once a week. She doesn't like it when I kill one of her customers, but she lets it slide because I give her a discount. It's rare that she ever needs someone bumped off though. Just the occasional rival who comes by her door issuing threats. In fact that's all it ever is. And this one was no different. The great thing about these jobs is the coverup is a piece of cake. get them catatonic, and induce an overdose with their own wares. Not a mark on their bodies aside from, well, the one. But there's hardly any suspiscion aroused by trackmarks on an OD DOA. Actually, given the ease it doesn't bother me at all that I don't get paid as much for these jobs. Speaking of which.
I knocked on my landlady's door. No real answer. Just a sort of low moan. I went in. There was a paper sack on the coffee table with my name on it. Next to it was my landlady, naked with a spent needle hanging out of her arm.
"Oh, it's you again," she moaned. "Is a hot bank teller too much to ask?"
