The Exquisite Corpse thread
Controller_7
4,052 Posts
Add on to complete the story.
It was a muggy summer night in New York City. Jim had just been on what possibly was the worst date ever...
It was a muggy summer night in New York City. Jim had just been on what possibly was the worst date ever...
Comments
"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
It was a cliched opening line. The next one made Jim puke a little in his mouth.
"I like guns. Guns get me...,excited."
PC leaned into JimÔÇÖs ear, ÔÇ£Meet me in the back alley and weÔÇÖll blow off these bores.ÔÇØ And then to the group, ÔÇ£Excuse me, I have to freshen my make-up.ÔÇØ
After 30 seconds of listening to the turds go on about first pressings, Jim couldnÔÇÖt take any more. ÔÇ£My date is taking a really long time, let me check on her.ÔÇØ
By the time he found PC in the alley, she was standing there with the record nerds and a gun pointed at his chest. ÔÇ£WhereÔÇÖs your car? We need to run a couple of errands.ÔÇØ
Two others clung to the roof, bumbling oafs in dungarees and one twenty inch waists.
"Lose the Waxi Two on the roof", hissed Patricia, her thousand year old soul and hatchet face glinting seductively in the moonlight.
Jim swung hard left and the Waxi mob slid off at ninety degrees.
"Off on a tangent" purred Patricia. "It's how they roll".
Jim opened his mouth to start asking questions, but just as he dribbled out the words "who are..."
...
Now, Jim really didn't know what to think. But darned if Patricia didn't immediately chime in with...
Patricia slapped him harder than he'd ever been slapped before and said "don't fuck around Jim. This is some serious shit here."
"What? That's already on youtube, isn't it?" Jim retorted.
Patricia slapped Jim hard again, then punched him in the mouth, saying "No, that's just some spurious audio recording. Now get real with us before we get real with you."
Jim: ÔÇ£Where are we going? I wanted a date and maybe a drunk hook up I could fantasize about this weekend. This is bullshit. Who the fuck are these ladies' blouses in the back?ÔÇØ
Patricia threw the teeth out the window, spat blood on to the floor and raised the gun, ÔÇ£Get out, get into my side. IÔÇÖm driving.ÔÇØ
The clue was in the name, Jim thought to himself.
Patricia slewed through the late-night traffic like a sozzled Russian on his first cabbie job. The digalots in the back had ceased the chat about beandipping and were huddled together and openly whimpering.
The neighbourhoods grew rougher and rougher, the human traffic more sparse, until they screeched to a halt outside a strip club.
The neon sign over the door read "Primos".
"Let's straighten this out right now" Patricia spat.
She turned around to the back, ÔÇ£Call Flagpole and tell him weÔÇÖre here.ÔÇØ
Cardigan #3 started dialing with a shaky hand. ÔÇ£OK. HeÔÇÖll meet us round back.ÔÇØ
Jim was pushed through a door, down some stairs and into a dank perfumey room with lockers, mirrors and bare asses, lots and lots of bare asses.
Flagpole pushed him into a corner with a mop and went back to talk to Patricia. Patricia then spoke to Cardigan #1 and left with Flagpole. The nerds joined Jim in the mop corner.
The view was suddenly blocked by a man-mountain bouncer who stood right in front of their booth and gazed down with disdain upon Jim and the other occupants of the booth. 4-finger rings on each hand spelt out BIGS-TAKZ and held, by the throat, Flaggy and Patricia.
"I believe these belong to you. Don't come in here looking for Primo. Primo comes looking for you."
He threw Flaggy and Patricia into the booth and pointed toward the DJ booth.
"Order some drinks. He'll be with you when he's done taking to the Scarecrow."
The heirarchy of insanity had suddenly shifted. There were crazier, more dangerous people above Patricia and Flagpole's say-so??
Flagpole, Primo, Scarecrow - was this the Juggalos Mafia?
"Tequilas. Plenty of 'em, duck."
A guy from the next booth stuck his head over.
"Did someone say Tequilas?"
One of the cardigans whispered in Jim's ear.
"Shiiiiit. That's Leo. Better indulge him if we want to live until the morning"
"Make that twice as much." said Jim to the girl.
She nodded like an automaton and headed off.
"What's the worst that could happen?" Jim thought.
He reaches over to shake hands with the newest additions to the party revealing a Gary Coleman cartoon tattoo on his forearm....
Leo bought his girffriend over. Uruguayan broad..
"Puta", she spat, venom dangling from her grill like salty stalactites.
Patricia would be all over this, Jim mused.
He was just about to find out.
.
Patricia yelled into her ear, "Where the fuck is my money? You think I didn't see you selling my records on discogs? Relisting, relisting like the insistent assclown that you are."
BIGS TAKZ was back.
The drinks arrived on a large tray; automaton's arm struggling to contain the weight of a veritable crystalline pizza of full shot glasses. A welcome dristraction.
"Tequila!" exclaimed Leo, grabbing a glass in each hand. The ladies pulled back, their claws for now withdrawn. Everybody picked up a shot and breathed out.
"Primo will sort it out, it's just a mix up with the bootlegs I'm sure" said Leo.
They looked across to the booth where Primo was concluding business with the Scarecrow, who was furtively stuffing 12s into a record case which sported a battered Confederate flag sticker.
The penny dropped like a manhole cover.
At VideoDrone.
His boss, James, had started dealing in used "Vinyls" on the side, as these "Were worth waaay more than films, trust me..."
James had gone away "On business" the other day. Jim thought it was unusual to be having a Mardi Gras in Chicago, but now Patricia's ranting was beginning to make sense.
THEY HAD THE WRONG JIM...
How to get out of this bozack intact, raers undiscogged, alive?
Taking Uruguayan and Patricia by the left and right, he yanked them through the doors and out to the car, thrusting them manfully onto the back seat. They sat there dazed, like a United Nations of sultry strut fantasies, grills like smashed crabs dripping exotic blood. He'd remembered the handcuffs he'd bought to the date, just in case y'know mad Patty got a little...frisky.
Cuffing their wrists and looping it through the seatbelt, he'd subdued them, nullified Leo and pied off Primo all in 60 seconds.
He dabbed the gas, pulled away and tuned into the LBE radio show. On came a familiar tune. "Brawling Broads" from the Coffy soundtrack.
Jim smiled to himself.
Next stop: Chicago.
"See if there's anything worthwhile in there. We can maybe trade these in Chi-town for your mythical raer and close the book on this whole shebang.
Try to keep the blood off the sleeves."
Patricia pulled out what appeared to be a 70's Mozambique Funk private pressing, adeptly flipping the sleeve from front to back, despite being handcuffed. She'd obviously done this before. He'd heard the rumours about Leo.
The sleeve was remarkable for its conspicuously virgin cardboard and fresh ring-wear that still bore the residue of ScotchBrite. Patricia carefully removed the vinyl.
"PUTA!" spat the latino, straight onto the label.
"Do you say anything else?" Jim enquired.
"Is FRAUD! Leo had the same shit from Primo last week. Primo promised us a refund tonight."
"If Patricia has what she says she has, when all this is done, she can pay you. I dunno why I am busting my balls for you Patricia, but Chicago Jim owes me for tonight."
"You have to help me Jim" laughed Patricia, as her face morphed into a demonic grin. "I called in a hit on your moms as insurance. We got 48 hours or..." she drew her thumb slowly across her throat.
The Ladies cackled together like braying hyenas. Jim put his foot to the floor.
"Puuuu-ta."
By the time the car was reached the outskirts of The Windy City, they had talked of many things. Ms Puta had been smuggled in by Leo and was dancing at Primos, but back home she had fronted a successful Lyn Christopher tribute band until a run-in with a drug baron had made her position untenable.
Patricia had made a fortune defrauding Frenchmen on ebay but was now wanted in 12 states. Paranoia had set in and she had moved her raers to some "Wizards Den" in an undisclosed underground location, and had been living hand-to-mouth as a toothless promo girl for Stonesthrow, until a run in with Will.I.Am had made her position untenable.
She also appeared adept at throwing "One man's G is..." rated-vinyls out of one window of a moving car whilst peeing through the other.
Things were getting interesting.
There, in a natural spotlight, stood a big guy. Easy 500 pounds.
The mannequins were human. Sort of. All toted 12s bags of varied makes, festooned with stickers and markings. Their vinyl tribe colours.
Jim snuck up on one. Bumfluff goatee, camo cargoes and a floral print shirt. Crocs on his feet. 5 dog-earrd copies of Whipped Cream peeked out from his overstuffed bag. One of the ChudHugger crew.
"Who's that?" whispered Jim from the side of his mouth.
"That, dude, is Pickwick. He runs vinyl in Chi. Duh."
Pickwick prepared to speak, and a hush descended.
"I pay five bucks - but never any more - for Vg+ Carl Davis Windy City on 45".
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Can you dig it?" He boomed.
"Caaaan yooooou diiiiig iiiiiiit?"
The record nerd throng erupted in an orgasmic explosion of hollering and whooping.
Latina's face glowed with anger.
"Windy City 45? Windy fuckin' City, forty fuckin' five? Puta i PISS through the jukebox hole of your Windy fuckin' City 45".
Well it makes a change from the car window, thought Jim.
Picking out a low-level local raer from the bag, she hurled the sealed Boscoe towards the direction of Pickwick; the minty vinyl, crisply sheen with no dish warp, spun through the air and arced down towards Pickwick, embedding itself vertically into his skull.
The crowd hushed.
"Ok if it means that much to you, I'll go to seven bucks fifty" said Pickwick. Eyes skyward, he slumped to the floor.
"Guess my time's up" he breathed.
"Chicago Jim's in charge.".
Dead.
One lone nerd spoke up from the back. One of the Mingering Posse.
"Bagsy his collection of Lyndsey Buckingham sevens" he blurted.
Interesting had turned into faintly ridiculous.
He grabbed a porcine fleeing Diggalot by the throat.
"There's a dude in town with a bell-less Mardi Gras. Jim. What do you know 'bout that, THUN?"
Y..Y.. Yeah. James. Pickwick was going to do the hook-up. There are supposed to be many folks looking to do him harm, 'cos that thing is red hot. Folls will KILL for that. No-one has seen him. Keeping a low profile."
At least Jim knew what his boss looked like, so he was ahead of the game. James' cell had been going to voicemail ever since he took off from Videodrone. He also knew James would have mastered all the local customs and would be doing his best to blend in seamlessly. There would be only one way to draw him out...
Sure as eggs is eggs, 10 minutes in, a figure in a pith helmet could be seen striding purposefully along the sidewalk, following the car. The giveaway was a T-shirt with all-italic text. They had their man.
But it looked like he wasn't alone....
"I'm big Jim" said the pith helmet, all fve zero of him in his tennis ball yellow Cuban heels. An American using irony in an appropriate if unsubtle way. Who'd a thought it.
Jim's mind whirred. It was all falling into place. But who were these two with him.
"And I'm Bossie" said the girl. Cute, if you liked eyes fluttering and Canuck accents. Luckily he did.
Bit who was the other schmuck? Seconds later, he found out.
The silent one ripped off his backpack, tore off his lumberjack chic plaid shirt, and turned round.
A huge tattoo on his back, in olde English script.
The letter K.