Jim The Epick Wizard's Stories

[Viking Dong]

1st one!

Right. You asked for it...

It was on a misty Monday morn, a bit north of Detroit. Me, Phill, and Raymundo were loading up in Phill's single cab Chevy truck, ready for the awesome week of bar hopping and gigging up at Quebec. After securing our instruments in the back, we cramped in and hit the highway, blaring Judas Priest and The Scorpions and screaming along like the idiots we were. There's nothing like good ole Priest on the cold Canadian Highways.

We stop off at a gas station in a dinky highway town, Raymundo buying a pack of cigs and some beer, Phill gassing up the truck, and myself taking a merry whiz in a shitty - literally - stall. On the way out, I catch the eye of the cashier, a hot-ass milf with tits the size of cantelopes and hips that suggested she could ride the Electric Cowboy with the best of them. She gave me a sly smile, and I her, an evil grin. I knew where I was going on the way back.

We continue on the way, the music switching from Priest to to Pantera, to get the energy going. It wouldn't be long until we played at the Urban Caribou, our first gig of the week, and the excitement in the close confines of Phill's truck was palpable. Raymundo was finger drumming and immitating the cymbal sounds, and I was wailing with Dimebag's solos with fingers and mouth. Phill was content with headbanging - hey, we had to get there in one piece, you dig?

Soon enough, the city limit signs of Quebec neared. The mood became more solemn as more miles passed beneath the wheels, and we knew that this could make or break the trip, this first gig.

The Urban Caribou was your typical streetside, neon light club, in the "middle" part of the town - not the slums, not the rich, not the suburbs. We didn't expect any trouble. Not that that mattered, of course - trouble always found us, especially with a guy like Phill.

We pulled up along the rapidly filling street, as it was nearing evening and the after work crowd would soon be hitting up the bars and clubs. We sat in silence, staring at the place. This was it, our chance to gain glory, or perhaps a one way ticket to obscurity.

Piling out, we go around the truck and start gathering our respected instruments, except for Raymundo, who we would have to help with carrying all of the drum pieces. Me and Phill leave him to struggle with a bass drum, cursing under his breath in Hispanic, and go in to check-in with the owner. The place was nice; well, nice enough. Wood pannelling and wood floors, wood seats and wood doors, with the ominipresent low-hanging haze of cigarette smoke and a constant clinking of glass beer pitchers. On some areas of the walls, posters and flyers for performing bands were stickied. Straight off the bat we see one for our a band, a colorful poster with all three of us in a pseudo - badass pose that borrowed heavily from the 80's, minus the makeup. A few other local bands were here and there, nothing too exciting (although they undoubtedly thought the same about us). But one poster caught our eyes in particular, and it was easy to see why.

In big bold letters were the words: The Canadian Cuntbusters, showing two outrageously porno-fied men (I mean, we are talking straight up 70's shit) along with three busty blondes. If it wasn't for the fact we had seen our posters earlier, I would have thought we'd hit the wrong joint. But our eyes did not deceive us. I checked the roster, and they'd be playing afterwards, and I breathed a sigh of thanks. We'd be gone before this nonsense took place, and perhaps before our rep could be ruined. Phill, however, had a nefarious glint in his eyes, and that glint meant only one thing, and one thing only.

Raymundo walked in, or, should I say, stumbled in, still cursing in his native language, juggling an armful of toms and cymbals. He paused cursing long enough to look at us quizzically. "What are you two faggitos lookin at, yeah?" Phill, who had been in intent contemplation of the poster, gave him a big grin, and nodded his head toward the colorful and lewd poster. Raymundo's eyes widened, and then shook his head. "No way, ese. No way."

Phill lauged. "Haha, come on, what could go wrong? Let's stay and watch them."

Already I knew the week was ruined.

[Viking Dong]

We set up our gear, Raymundo taking the back position while helplessly setting up his drum kit, me and Phill setting up our amps, mics, and instruments. The crowd was small so far, but it was still early in the evening. And we were the openers, besides, so we weren't expecting too much of a turnout. But for our purposes, it would be enough.

As the minutes passed, with Raymundo cursing the Sound Techie in his native language and Phill playing a few slaps on the bass, the crowd began to trickle in steadily. It was your usual Canadian hodge-podge - lots of coats, lots of whiskey, and the unmistakable smell of moose piss was dominant. Well, maybe I was imagining things about the last part, I never could handle Canadian whiskey as good as Phill or Raymundo.

A particular person in the typical Canadian caught my eye - or should I saw, a particular gal. She was about half a foot shorter than me, thick but not fat, obviously fake blond-dyed hair, loads of makeup - the usual club groupie. She gave me an almost-knowing smile, and a slight sway of the hips told me that, if I so desired, I was going to have the fuck of my life after this gig. That is, if I were to take up this subtle offer. The pros and cons seemed evenly balanced. With a gal like her, there was going to be consequences afterwards, of that I had absolutely no doubt.

I was balls-deep in thought when I realized Phill was trying to get my attention and pointing excitedly at something. I snapped out of my reverie and gave him an angry look, only to see what he was motioning towards. At the back of the crowd could have only been the frontman on the poster for The Canadian Cuntbusters. The aviator glasses, the bell bottoms, the chops - especially the chops! - the cocky attitude, it was all there. Phill guffawed. "Can't wait to stay and watch him play. It's gonna be good, man, you'll see."

Of course I couldn't see. Bringing back the past to the present, in the form of that particular music form, was a recipe for bad juju.

And then my fears were confirmed: Phill waved him over to us. I inwardly winced.

And then it got worse, because, however ludicrously it seemed, I knew him from somewhere! And lo, beneath the walrus 'stache, glass and chops, it was none other than Sascrotch! Aghast, my mouth just hung open. After all these years, I was to confront him.... here?!