We’re somewhere just outside a Flagstaff, AZ.. A coupla days ago we finally managed to escape from Huey Lewis an’ the News after months a being forced inta touring across America as roadies fer the band. Now we’re holed up in some dude’s garage, layin’ low fer awhile waitin’ fer Tyler ta get better.
The night before we left, Tyler wuz in charge a settin’ up the microphones fer a gig in the Coors Light tent at the Larimer County Fair in Colorado. An’ apparently he didn’t tighten the mic stand tightly enough, cos’ during the middle of “Heart of Rock and Roll,” Mr. Lewis’ microphone stand collapses, an’ his microphone goes slidin’ back down until it’s almost level with his waist. He kinda laughs it off an’ continues singin’ the rest a the song bent over sos he can reach the mic an’ the crowd cheers. But two songs later we can’t get the mic stand fixed an’ he’s still singin’ all bent over. Not sure why Mr. Lewis don’t just take the mic off the stand an’ hold it up to his mouth, but he don’t. It get’s especially bad durin’ his harmonica solo on “Bad is Bad,” cos when he’s all hunched over like that he can’t get no breath enough to hit all the right notes. It get’s even worse when towards the end of “Hip to be Square” he starts screamin’. “Aaaugh! My Baaaa-aack! Fuck!”
The gig ends abruptly. Bradford an’ a couple of the guys in the band lead Mr. Lewis off the stage and he’s whisked off to the hospital in his private helicopter. Nobody says nothin’ cos we’re all just shitin’ ourselves, waitin’ fer Bradford to come back. We know he’s gonna lay inta us bad, but we don’t know how bad. It’s a good three or four hours an’ we’re sweatin’ it the whole way through. When he finally does return, he calls us three roadies inta his office –which happens ta be the men’s bathroom in the Denny’s restaurant next to the motel that the band’s stayin’ at tonight. We’re standin’ there scared stiff as Bradford sits on the toilet with his pants down around his ankles, starin’ at us an’ not sayin’ anything. Tyler’s shakin’ like a week old greyhound puppy cos he knows he’s the one that’s gonna get the shit fer this. The silence lasts fer about five minutes and temporarily breaks when Bradford cuts loose with a loud and watery fart, sprayin’ diarrhea all over the bowl. The smell is noxious but none a us dares ta say anything or make a move cos then it’d be all over fer us. I glance over at Dong an’ see a tear in the corner of his eye.
Finally, Bradford speaks. “What happened out there?” He asks in a voice so low that it’s barely above a whisper. “Who’s responsible?”
The three of us look at each other, waiting for what the other guy will do. None of us wants to be the first to speak.
“Well, I’m waiting,” Bradford says. “C’mon, who was in charge of the microphones tonight?”
Still we don’t say anything; we just look at each other waiting to see what the other guy’s gonna do. Finally Dong cracks.
“Ty-rer!” he cries. “It was Ty-rer! He in chawge of the micwophone .” Then he puts his head in his hands and sobs. “I’m so solly, Ty-rer. I so, so solly.”
He can’t even bring himself to look at Tyler.
Bradford looks at me. “Is that right? The African guy was in charge of settin’ up the mic stands?”
Now, I don’t wanna grass out Tyler cos we’re pretty good buds; but I also don’t wanna have Bradford punch his fist through my skull. Plus, the way I see it, Dong’s already blabbed so Tyler’s already good as dead; ain’t no sense in both a us getting killed, y’know what I’m sayin’? So I tells ‘em the truth.
“Uhh…yeah, I guess so,” I says.
Tyler says something to defend himself but his English ain’t too good and he’s so flustered that nobody can make out what he’s sayin’. I don’t matter anyway cos Bradford interrupts him, tells us ta wait outside while he deals with Tyler privately. So Dong an me wait outside in the Denny’s parkin’ lot. Even out here we can hear muffled screams an’ shouts. About an hour later Bradford walks outside with a couple a the band members and a few groupies. They’re all laughin’ an stuff an as they walk past us, Bradford tells us to go back in an get “that black guy.”
We go back inta the bathroom an’ see Tyler lyin’ on the floor next ta one a the toilets, coughin’ up blood. He’s a fuckin’ mess. Blood and teeth are all over the bathroom floor. His arm is broken in two places, both kneecaps are busted an’ he’s got three or four cracked ribs. We drag him outta there and take him back to the Escort. Half a hour later, he’s passed out from the pain. Me an’ Dong are tryin’ ta figure out what ta do. A couplea nights earlier Grumpy Bill comes ta us with plans to help us bust out. We didn’t go then because Bradford had told us he was gonna give us a loaf a bread an’a can a Pepsi Max to share between us fer doin’ such a good job at the show in Fort Collins. Grumpy Bill said he understood he’d be waitin’ fer us in Flagstaff if we changed our minds. Even though we were still waitin’ fer our Pepsi Max, Dong an’ I decide we’ve had enough, so later on that night when everyone’s asleep, we take off an’ head fer Flagstaff.
***************
So we’ve been stayin’ at this guy’s garage fer the past few days. Grumpy Bill says he knows this guy.
“The guy’s away on vacation but he says it’s cool,” Grumpy Bill tells me.
“Can we go inside the house?" I ask. "I don’t really like it out here..too fuckin’ cold. And there’s spiders."
“Ummm… no.”
“How come? You said the guy’s on vacation. How’s he gonna know?”
“Cuz I said so, okay?” Grumpy Bill snaps.
Well if Grumpy Bill says this guy don’t want us in the house then I guess that’s that; at least we got the garage and that’s somewhere. A coupla days later I figer out why the guy don’t want us in his house. Just outta curiosity I peer through this guy’s window into his living room and can see right away that this guy’s interior decoratin’ is atrocious. I mean all the furniture is covered in these white sheets, an’ there’s this yella tape all over the place. I mean what the fuck, right? An’ what’s the deal with these white outlines all over the floor; there’s about three or four of ‘em, all in the shape of people. This guy’s not a very good housekeeper either, cos there’s these stains all over the carpet. No wonder the dude didn’t want us in his house; he must be totally embarrassed about what a shitty housekeeper he is.
Anyway, Grumpy Bill says that none of us are supposed to leave the garage until he says so, cos Mr. Lewis has all FBI, CIA and all the cops in the state out lookin’ fer us. He insists that he’s the only of us who can leave because he’s got ninja training. So the three of us are stuck here an Grumpy Bill comes an’ visits us a couple a times a day to bring us food an’ stuff. Sometimes when he’s supposed ta come back with food he arrives empty handed an’ tells us that he got hungry an’ ate the food himself so tough shit. Whenever he does this he’s usually comin’ back drunker than usual; then he usually takes his clothes off an’ marches around the garage screamin’ that he’s some sorta super hero. One time when he does this he grabs me an’ pile drives my head onto the concrete floor. “Away with your villany, you evil villain!” he screams.
Little by little Tyler gets better; he gets stronger. After about two weeks he’s able to walk a little with the crutches. Grumpy Bill sends round a doctor a one day: Dr. Beaver. He comes an’ looks at Tyler lyin’ down on the couch then sits next to him. He takes out this yella, plastic stethacope- y’know one of them things that docs use ta listen to yer heart and holds it ta Tyler’s chest. He listens fer a couple a seconds, then puts the heart listening thing back in his bag an then he grabs Tyler’s balls an has a feel. After about half an hour he tells Tyler that as part of his treatment Tyler needs ta take his pants off an’ massage his nuts twice a day fer at least a half hour each. Then he takes out a disposable camera an’ hands it over ta Dong.
“It’s very important he does this, if he wants to get better,” the doc says. “And to make sure that he actually does it I want you to take some pictures an’ send them to me as proof.”
Dong looks at me an’ I shrug my shoulders. Not sure how Tyler squeezin’ his bag is gonna help with his shattered kneecaps but then again, I ain’t no doctor. I didn’t go to some fancy medical school in Mexico fer six months like this fella did. So he must know what he’s talkin’ bout.
After ‘bout a month, Tyler is well enough to move about. He’s ready to get outta the garage an’ get movin’ again. We all are, but we have to wait fer Grumpy Bill ta give us the all clear, an’ he seems ta have split. Nobody knows where he is. So we wait, and we wait….and we wait. With Grumpy Bill missin’ there’s no one ta bring us food, and our supplies are startin’ ta get scarce. We’re all starvin’. I find a old saltine cracker behind a old exercise bike an’ wolf it down hopin’ nobody sees it. It’s the only thing I get ta eat fer nearly 2 days.
Then one day, just outta the blue, Grumpy Bill’s back. He’s got two guys with him. I’ve never seen these guys before, but they look like they could be real big shots cos they’re real classy lookin.’ I mean, they’re the kinda guys that ya look at an’ think – shit, if only that wuz me. I bet these guys swim in a river a pussy every night. Damn.
Both guys are probably ‘bout in their mid 40’s or so. One a them’s a big guy, over 6 feet, an’ heavy. He’s got glasses, a beard an’ a pony tail; an’ he’s sportin’ a fadin’ black Dokken t-shirt from their 1987 tour. The other guy’s small, kinda wiry lookin’. He’s got a red bandanna tied round his forehead an’ a Florida Marlins cap perched on top a it. Stringy blonde hair trials from his cap down the back a his neck to his shoulders. He’s wearin’ this tie-dyed t-shirt with all this big skull on it an some band called the Grateful Dead written across the chest.. I ain’t never heard a them before but with a name like that I can tell they must be balls out metal. Cain’t wait ta hear ‘em.
Anyway, Grumpy Bill introduces ‘em an’ tells us their names, but I don’t quite catch ‘em cos I’m still thinkin’ bout cool these guys look. The big guy steps up an’ shakes our hands, like he’s a cop or somethin,’ The guy in the Grateful Dead shirt just nods.
“Gentlemen,” the big dude says. “We represent an organization called R.U.N.”
“R.U.N., what is this R.U.N. that you speak of?” Tyler asks.
“It stands for Roadie Underground Network,” says Grateful Dead guy. “Basically we’re a group of former roadies that are committed to securing the freedom of roadies such as your selves.”
“That’s right,” the big guy says. “I spent six years as a roadie for Krokus before I was traded to Great White. I saw and did things that no human being should have to. It was horrible. I finally made my escape during the Rhode Island nightclub fire of 2003. Sadly, not all of my comrades made it.”
“And I was a roadie for the Grateful Dead,” said the other guy. “Most of my memories of those years have been wiped out, which I guess is a blessing. But to this day, everything smells to me like Jerry Garcia’s beard.”
“Wow,” Dong says. “That must be tough.”
“Anyway, we’ve come by to tell you to get your things together because we need to leave as soon as possible, like by tonight,” the big guy says.
“Tonight, where are we going?” I ask.
“Where going to R.U.N.’s secret headquarters so you can meet our leader and so we can make plans to get you guys back home.”
“And where would that be, sir?” Tyler asks.
“Where else? Albuquerque, New Mexico.”
To Be Continued……….
nultygoestopartick
that was good.