HEAD MUSIC
Joey Becker sat, long faced, amidst a pile of partially opened Christmas presents. It had been, so far anyway, a real beat Christmas. Joey, like most boys his age, considered any gift giving (or receiving) occasion beat if what they got for those occasions consisted mainly of articles of clothing the likes of underwear, and socks, and flannel shirts, or corduroy pants, etc, etc ,etc, ad infinitum. The occasion became really, really beat when that was all you got, like on his fourteenth birthday two years ago. Joey had walked away from that little gathering with enough underwear and colored socks to sink a battleship. Fourteen ranked as one of the all‑time worst life changes ever for Joey.
And when he had casually asked his mom about the slingshot he was hoping to get, and about the abundance of clothing she had responded simply with,
"Those are things you need Joseph (she always called him Joseph when she was peeved at him. When she was furious she called him by his full name. Then the house would ring with the sound of "Joseph Anthony Becker", or if Mitch was in for it it was "Mitchell Stephen Becker". When ma used your full name you may as well kiss your ever loving ass goodbye), and a slingshot (she said it like it was a dirty word) is definitely not something you need."
He had dropped it, but that slingshot became the first brick he laid in his current wall of defiance. Several weeks later his mom had found a slingshot tucked away in his jeans drawer the exact model he had asked for. When she confronted him with it he had said it was a friend’s, and that he was only holding it for him because his mom wouldn't let him have one either. His mom obviously didn't believe him, but his demeanor was such that she had backed down, telling him only that he needed to take it back to his friend and let him deal with keeping it. Joey had mumbled something about doing it right away, and then proceeded to find a better hiding place for his slingshot. From that point on Joey began to test his boundaries more and more, seeing just how far his mom and dad would bend before breaking.
For the next two years he had made their lives a living hell, constantly flexing his muscle in a variety of ways, stressing his parents hold on him until it stood now right at the breaking point. And surprisingly enough, Joey found that his parents were the ones who were losing the battle. Not to say that he didn't expect that to happen; he just didn't expect it to happen that fast.
It started with little things, like the slingshot, but progressed rapidly into other, more vital, areas of life like how late Joey stayed out, and who Joey hung out with, and what Joey got away with. Pretty soon Joey was pretty much in charge of how his life went, and his mom and dad were stuck footing the bills.
He told his mom what clothes he would and would not wear, who he would hang out with, how late he'd stay out, what tv shows he'd watch, and most of all, what kind of music he'd listen to. That was where the real battle had been; where his parents had stood their ground the longest. When it came to the music he listened to mom and dad had almost seemingly snapped out of their comatic parenting and reverted back to what they had been before the slingshot; died‑in‑the‑wool steel backboned parents. For a few moments they had Joey running scared.
It started with his first Scorpions album. Joey had purchased it with money taken from his mom's purse over a period of two weeks and a few days. Hell, she left it sittin right inside the dining room, wide open, the wads of cash just brimmimg out the top. What's a guy to do, ignore a golden opportunity? It wasn't his fault that she couldn't keep track of her cash. And she never missed it the way he did it.
"Ma, I need two bucks for lunch!" he'd yell, while she was downstairs throwin a load of wash into the machine.
"It's in my purse honey... and get some out for Mitch too, kay?" she'd yell back. And two bucks would turn into two for him, two for Mitch, and another two for him.
"Ma, can I have a couple bucks for soda's and a candy bar. Me and Phil are going to play ball down the schoolyard and hittin Hank's after with some of the guys?" he'd yell to her while she was upstairs making the beds, or cleaning the tub, or whatever it was she did up there half the day long.
And she'd say, "As long as you don't ruin your supper with all that crap. Try to get something good for you, kay?" and three dollars would turn into six dollars, or the ten dollar bill would find its way into his pocket and he'd put back four dollars so she'd think she just spent six and had gotten change. He was ever so careful, never getting caught, until Mitch. Little Mitchie almost blew the whole wad for him, and almost got killed for his trouble.
Most of the time it was small con jobs that got him money, but sometimes, like in this instance, it was outright thievery. Mom had gone to the bank, then to the grocery store, stopping at the butcher and the bakery on her way home from Grand Union. Now was a perfect opportunity to cop a few bucks since she probably had no idea how much cash was left in her wallet. Joey seized the moment while his mom was hanging out clothes on the line.
He walked right into the dining room and picked her purse off of the dining room chair it spent most of its time on, unsnapping the small clasp that held it closed and removing her brown calfskin wallet his dad had given her last year for Christmas as if it was his own. Joey riffled through the contents slowly, sorting out in his mind how much it was safe to take. He debated silently for a few moments, finally settling on a five and two ones (with two dollars in change thrown in for good measure) which would be just enough for the new Zingers album, "Houses of the Hellbent". He pocketed the cash, putting back the wallet and purse exactly where it had come from, and turned to go upstairs to his room. Mitch was framed in the doorway wide‑eyed, mouth hanging open
like he was the grand prize winner of the fly catching contest at the fair.
Had Joey been a little smarter he probably could have talked his way out of the small jam that his baby brother's presence had created for him; but Joey wasn't smart, he had developed his arms instead of his brains, and let his biceps do the thinking for him. Joey reacted with his best assets and twelve year old Mitch found himself being dragged up into Joey's bedroom, one large heavily muscled arm locked around his head and mouth. Joey was oblivious to the small gasping noises emanating from Mitch as he lumbered his way up the staircase and into his bedroom at the end of the hall which signified that Mitch was trying his damndest to breathe. Instead, he was trying to control the surge of red that threatened to wash over him, obliterating all else and causing him to beat Mitch into a bloody pulp.
He reached his bedroom, slamming open the door and throwing Mitch inside. Mitch fell to the ground and rolled, banging his head against the stereo stand. He lay there gasping and making a strange whooping noise that, for a moment, almost made Joey stop and reconsider what he was doing. Unfortunately for Mitch, Joey's survival instinct had become too well honed, and his love for his kid brother had been buried too deep. Joey kicked the door shut behind him.
He walked over to Mitch and rolled him over. Mitch was starting to breathe easier, but his eyes held that wild, scared look of a wounded animal; cornered, outnumbered, outmatched.
Nowhere left to run, no place left to turn.
"Whatever you think you saw you are about to forget you saw, you understand shithead?" Joey growled. He rolled Mitch to the side and slammed his fist into his lower bicep three times in rapid succession. Mitch let out a howl that was immediately smothered by the pillow from Joey's bed. For the second time in less than ten minutes Mitch found himself unable to breathe.
Joey pulled the pillow from Mitch's head. Mitch was gasping for air, sucking in great gulps, trying desperately to catch his breath as it flitted away like so many shadows caught in a wave of dizzying sunshine. Joey stood over him like a Grecian statue, pillow poised, waiting for Mitch to act. Mitch stared at his older brother with the growing realization that Joey was just a little bit; no, more than a little bit, he was a lot crazy. Mitch also understood that if he didn't play his cards just right Joey would kill him; not noogie his head like he'd do if Mitch wanted to tag along down to the school yard, or give him an Indian rope burn like he sometimes gave him for messing in his room, oh no dear friends and loved ones, Joey would K‑I‑double hockey sticks old Mitchey‑boy one hundred percent dead, and that thought gripped twelve year old Mitch's heart with a terror he'd never before even known existed.
"Joey, Joey..hey, joe man oh man huuuhh, Joey, heyyyy," Mitch gasped, trying desperately to find words to soothe his big brother.
"Joey, man hey, I didn't see nothin man, nothin at all, Joey honest injun I swear. I mean, like, so what a couple bucks from ma's purse. Like she's really gonna miss it, huh? Hey man, I swear, I don't know nothin, please Joey, please...." Mitch started to cry quietly, sure in his heart that Joey was about to send him to an early grave. Instead, he felt a hand grab his shoulder and shake.
"Hey, oh hey man, Mitchey. Don't start cryin. Hey, c'mon now. I didn't mean it, hey I'm sorry." Joey pulled Mitch to his feet.
"Now go on, get outta here. I'm sorry, really." Joey patted his brother on the back softly as Mitch headed for the hall. Just as Mitch was about to go out the door Joey yanked him hard by the shirt, pulling him right up to his face. Mitch felt Joey's breath in his ear, heard his own heart triphammering away with fear.
"You just remember Mitchey, if ma happens to find a couple bucks missing from her purse YOU took it. You got it, shithead? Cause you just remember what happened here today and know there's plenty more where that came from, capishe?"
With that Joey shoved Mitch out his door and into the hallway. Mitch sprawled over his own feet and hit the linen closet door with a thud. Joey slammed his bedroom door behind him.
"Mitch! What was that banging noise?"
"Nothin ma, I tripped, that's all." Mitch limped back to his room, a much wiser young man than he had been fifteen minutes before. For one thing, he knew that Joey was crazy, almost to the point of madness. For another he knew that he would, at all costs, stay out of Joey's way. And last but certainly not least, dear friends, he knew he was soaking wet from where he had pissed himself. Mitch took off his clothes, stuffing them deep in the hamper, then went to shower. He hesitated, then locked the bathroom door behind him.
With the end of that little escapade The Zinger's latest album sat on Joey's new Garrand turntable (which he had bought hot from Sammy Waster at school) cranked to the max. Padge was right in the middle of a wicked cool guitar break (with Joey accompanying on air guitar in front of his dresser mirror) when the fireworks began. First came the banging on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, which Joey ignored. Then, more banging along with muffled shouts of "Turn that shit down", which Joey also ignored. When Joey heard the stomping of his dad's shoes on the stairs he smiled, and braced himself for another battle. Joey closed his eyes and wailed along with Johnny. The door flew open, slamming against the wall.
"Turn that shit down, and turn it down right NOW!!" his father screamed from the doorwell. Joey opened his eyes and smiled at his dad.
"What!" he yelled. "I can't HEAR you!"
Herb Becker had had enough. That was all. It was enough; it was more than enough, it was too much already. He stomped across the room and yanked the needle off of Ronald Playder and company.
"Hey!" Joey yelled. "I was listening to that!"
"So was everyone else in the neighborhood! Judas H. Priest in a sidecar Joe, that shit was so loud you couldn't hear yourself think." Herb Becker stood, hands on hips, facing his son, whom he loved, but suddenly realized he no longer knew. That swiftly fleeting thought left his heart with a slight ache that he would later attribute to indigestion, but which, right now, burned far far worse. His attitude softened towards his firstborn, and that spelled his downfall.
Joey looked at his dad, and saw what he perceived as weakness, but what was in reality love. Nevertheless, he struck.
"I wasn't trying to think dad, I was trying not to think, but to feel, to get in touch with my feelings through the pulse of the music."
"Well get in touch with something else. Lemme see that album. What is this crap anyway?" Herb Becker picked up the Zinger's album with naked children scaling the steps of an office building equipped with an altar of some sort on top.
"What the hell have you kids got your hands on? Joey, I do not want you listening to this kind of drivel; no, you will not listen to this in my house. Is that understood?" Herb Becker stared at the cover wondering just where the hell this generation was going. Had he asked his son he would have been surprised to hear the answer; they were going wherever the hell they wanted.
Joey Becker was slightly taken back. His dad had put his foot down; something he hadn't done in more than a year. Joey hadn't heard the patented Herb Becker pronouncement of "Is that understood" spoken in his direction for quite some time, and it shook him. But only for a moment, dear friends and neighbors.
"No, I don't understand. But that's no big deal because you don't want me to understand, you just want me to obey. Isn't that right, daddy dear? Well here's a news flash for you Pops; I don't give a rat's asshole what you want or don't want so just get the hell out of my room and leave me alone." As Joey said this he moved slowly in front of his dad, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. Their eyes met, and held for what seemed like an eternity. Worlds ended and began in the space of that stare; generations changed and shifted while that look was exchanged between father and son; the gods played and the muses danced and angels gathered on the heads of pins scattered across the universe
while a silent battle roared in Joey Beckers bedroom.
And then it was over.
"Well at least turn it down so the rest of us can think, huh?" Herb Becker said as he turned his eyes to the floor. With that Herb Becker slunk from the room of his firstborn, giving him over to whatever gods watch over little boys and fools, consoling himself with the thought that at least he still had Mitch to care for even if Joey was gone to him now.
All of which brought Joey Becker to this really beat Christmas morning, where so far all that had come out of the stack of wrapped boxes was clothes. What Joey was waiting for, and they'd best be somewhere in that stack if his parents knew what was good for them, was a new double diamond tipped needle for his turntable and the latest Anhihilator album, "In the Demon's Lair". There was a really boss song on the album that all the really boss radio stations were playing called, "All Parents must Die!” Joey couldn't wait to crank that puppy up!
Mitch was busy opening a radio controlled purple dune buggy when Joey finally saw what he had waited all morning for; a small box wrapped together with a square, flat box. The needle and the album! He shouted "Awright!" and tore off the wrapping.
"Yes! Oh so cool! Ma, dad,really thanks!" Joey held the album out and inspected the cover while his parents exchanged worried glances as if to say, "What have we done?", but it was already much too late for that. Much,much too late. The album cover was uniquely designed to give a three dimensional appearance to the viewer. It was a picture of a stone slab buried in the earth, with a large iron ring fastened to the outside to allow you to open the slab, if you dared. It was so life like in appearance that there was dirt and leaves strewn across the slate gray slab that seemed to move as if stirred by a slight breeze. Joey had to blink several times to assure himself that the leaves really weren't moving. What the slab obviously was was the entrance into the demon's lair. When you opened the album cover the inside was a picture of a deep hole dug in the earth with an iron rung ladder attached to one side leading down into the heart of the lair. A gray, cold mist seemed to waft from the hole inviting the listener to come down the ladders rungs, come into the Demon's Lair and see what awaits you there.
The song titles and the rest of the pertinent information you find on albums was stuck in one small section of smoke at the bottom right corner so as not to interfere with the graphics of the cover. The back of the album was just a shot of the band standing in an ancient graveyard next to a stone slab that was very much like the one drawn on the front cover, only this slab was partially lifted and a claw‑like hand was reaching out about to grab hold of the lead singers ankle. Joey shuddered when he thought about being the guy that had to get inside that crypt to stick his hand out there for the picture.
"Uhh uhh, not me baby. No way Jose." Joey whispered.
"What honey?" his mom said.
"Uhh, nothing ma. I'm gonna go upstairs and listen to my album with my new needle, ok? And I promise I'll use the headphones so I won't disturb you guys down here."
"Fine Joe; that's fine..." Herb Becker said quietly, not wanting to look at his son, not wanting to ruin this day for his wife and his other son. Joey gathered his things, thanked everyone and went to his room.
Ten minutes later, new needle in place, Joey Becker lit up a big, fat joint, taking care to blow the smoke out the bedroom window. Then he slipped his headphones on, and put his new album on the turntable cueing up the first song. Soon Joey was sitting next to his bed, very stoned, and examining his new album like it was the last piece of art on the planet. The cover, Joey decided, was sooo coool. Probably the coolest thing he had ever seen.
Twice he had to shake himself while looking at the cover because he was sure he had seen those leaves move in some non‑existent breeze, had in fact smelled some type of rot oozing from the sides of that solemn gray slab. Joey wasn't sure if it was really good pot, or if it was just the coolest album cover he'd ever seen, but he would have sworn he saw what he saw. And the music! The music was absolutely awesome!
Most of the album was unbelievably bizarre, but the best song on the whole thing was without a doubt the last track called, "He's coming, and He's hungry". This track was quieter than the other songs; a much slower, mellower tempo altogether, but with good reason. It was meant to be a hauntingly spooky refrain all about the coming of the demon out of its lair to feast on human flesh. In the last part of the song, after having described the demon in the most grotesque fashion imaginable and his gruesome eating habits, the band sang the chorus over and over and over while demonic voices whispered little incantations in the background so low that you had to really pay attention to hear what they were saying. The first time through Joey yanked the speakers off his head and looked wildly around the room, convinced that Mitch was hiding inside somewhere trying to freak him out. Only after he put the headphones on and off several times and realized where the voices were coming from did his heart stop beating like a bass drum in his chest. Then he became intrigued with what those voices were chanting, playing the song over and over, straining to hear.
What he heard behind the chorus sounded like the ravings and squeelings of a group of lunatics.
"I'm going, coming here I eat up... hungr.. hungry..mmmm" one said.
"Invite me invite.. come up... through..hhsss hee hee hee" another cackled.
"Ashtor... god of chil... kill me.. eat.. awful hungry hungry hungry.. ashtoreth him...hahahahahahahahah...." then evil little peals of laughter, like children damned for all time, then screams and what Joey thought sounded a lot like CHEWING, and that was really cool.
The album was laying down by Joey's feet, face up so the stone slab was towards him. Joey was staring at it, listening to the insane cackling behind the chorus, when he saw something that made him jump.
The slab top shifted. He was sure of it. It had shifted, and now it was slightly off center where as before it sat dead center in the hole. Joey shook his head. He was sure, but not really sure. Truth was he was too stoned to really remember if it had been straight, or if it was offset all along. Joey relaxed; he was just stoned, that's all. Just stoned off his face. That's all. He leaned back against his bed, closing his eyes and letting the mellowness of the chorus take him.
"Just relax" he thought to himself when the voices began, cackling madness and lunacy, evil and terror. "It's just a fuckin album, for Pete’s sake."
He forced himself to remain calm when he heard what sounded like stone scraping stone, as if the demon was lifting the cover to its lair, searching for new food, new flesh to taste and devour, new blood to drink and nourish itself with. He started, then calmed himself when mist seemed to encircle his head, wetting his face with its moisture, bringing with it odors of putrescence and rot, smells from dead and decaying things long buried.
"It's just an album, just a friggin album, and the pot. That sonofabitchin MacIntyre sold me some wild ass kickin pot; that's all, that's all. I'm just really stoned; really really blown out of the ever lovin water stoned." he chanted to himself, over and over, like some long ago ancient talisman made up to ward off the evils of the night. And still those smells assaulted his nostrils, making him gag with their intensity, forcing themselves down the back of his throat. Scrape went the stone; creak went the slab, opening wider and wider. Now the hand pushing that ancient stone up and over, squishing and swishing like something that had been submerged in the swamp until it bloated. Pushing, with that wet, slime covered hand, festered with sores oozing pus and blood, long nails with ragged pieces of flesh hanging, remnants of the last little boy that dared to enter the Lair, dared to sit as night fell with his eyes closed and no one who cared nearby to protect him, dared to alienate himself from family and friends so he sat alone, easy prey for whatever may choose to emerge from under that cold, stone slab to feast. And mad, cackling mutterings, dry and paper thin found their way into Joey Beckers ears, tickling the sanity of his mind until he thought he would surely go crazy right here in his stinkin bedroom with his posters of James Dean and Roger Staubach watching it all happen. Yes siree friends and neighbors, step right up to the Joey Becker goes mad show brought to you live from Dunwoodie drive, special guest appearance by the wolfman who will shave himself to reveal he is in reality Dick Clark (its really groovy and I can really dance to it.. I give it an 85 Dick). Joey chuckled; then laughed, then laughed harder, then went into absolute hysterics... until the claw closed around his ankle. Then Joey Becker stopped laughing forever.
"Joey... hey Joey, dinners ready. Joey...?" Mitch Becker slowly opened his big brothers door, not wanting to go in for fear of incurring Joey's wrath and earning himself a noogie, or a nose tweakie, or some other form of sibling torture. But he went in anyway, because his ma had told him to go and get Joey for Christmas dinner.
"Leave the boy. Let's eat this meal in peace for once." his father had pleaded. But his mom was not to be deterred. She had planned this meal for four people and dammit to hell four people would eat this meal.
So up the stairs Mitch had gone. Down the hall and through the door to grandmother's house we go. But Joey wasn't in his room. Mitch walked in further, just knowing that Joey would jump out of his closet, or out from under his bed trying to scare the piss outta little Mitchey. What he didn't realize was that all he had to do to accomplish that was walk into the same room. But Joey didn't jump out from hiding with a shout; in fact, Joey was no where to be found.
Mitch walked all the way into the middle of the room. That stupid album was still on the turntable, going round and round, Joey's new diamond needle slicing the sounds from the vinyl like a surgeon extracting a cancerous tumour from the soft part of the brain. Mitch heard the music, sounding from far away, like it was in a tunnel. He looked closer through the dim black light seeping from Joey's lamp and saw the headphones laying on the floor next to Joe's bed. Music was pouring out from them like water through a crack in a dam. Mitch leaned closer to the set. There was some kind of smell, like rotten damp clothes, coming from near the bed.
Mitch looked and saw that the floor was wet, and there were small pieces of rotted crap poking out not from under the cover of the bed Mitch realized wildly, but from under some kind of moss strewn across Joey's throw rug; moss and dirt that seemed to make a trail towards the bed. "Or away from the bed" Mitch thought with some uneasiness. His gaze followed the path of the wet until it rested on Joey's new album lying near the stereo stand. There seemed to be some kind of light coming from under the cover; "no, the SLAB on the cover..." Mitch started to back away from that album, as the last song played over and over on the stereo; its bizarre music seeping from the headphones like slime seeps from a crack in your basement floor during rainy season.
And when he heard the laughter; dry rasping, cackling insanity bubbling out from under that cold gray stone slab, and those mad voices chuckling and muttering something about coming and eating and still very, very hungry his heart grew heavy in his chest and his throat closed up tight as you please. Terror froze him to the spot on the floor, froze him solid as he watched that stone slab begin to shift and move. Froze him stiff as course yellow light came dripping from under that slab, getting brighter and brighter as it opened more and more. Froze him like a statue as he saw that dripping, slimy claw‑like thing pushing its way from god only knows where, trying to get into this world to eat little Mitchey, eat him right up. Fear gripped him and held him tight until he heard that sound, that sound that pushed him over the edge, that sound that threw him into action; the sound of chewing, chewing flesh and bones, Joey's flesh and bones.
"Noooooooooooooo!" Mitch screamed, throwing himself on top of the album, feeling the coldness of the slab on his chest as it slammed shut beneath his weight. Mitch could feel whatever it was pushing against the slab, trying desperately to get out so it could eat and feed. Mitch grabbed for anything, anything at all, and his hand fell on Joey's Bic lighter he had used to light his joints with.
"Nooooooooooooooo!" Mitch screamed again, flicking the wheel of the bright blue bic until a jet of fire shot from its nose.
"Nooooooooooooooo!" Mitch Becker screamed as he layed the flame on the corner of the album cover‑turned opening. The tongue of fire licked up the cover like an old lover, taking the bedspread and the throw rug with it for good measure. Mitch's shirt caught briefly, but it went out with a hiss as he rolled off the cold slab of the album cover and into the wetness on the floor. With another scream he ran from the room, slamming Joey's door behind him.
The fire department put the blaze out in a little less than two hours; just long enough for the whole house to burn to the ground. When the fire ran it ran like madness, taking rooms and walls like soldiers storming a fortress, devouring everything it could lay its hands on until there was nothing left to devour. Fire chief said it was the most stubborn fire he'd ever fought.
"Seemed determined to take the house with it." he was overheard commenting to a friend. His friend readily agreed since the chief was buying the beers.
Joey Becker's body was found the next morning in what remained of his room, lying next to his stereo, holding an album to his chest. The cause of the fire was determined to be an accident; Joey getting too stoned to realize he had lit the rug on fire was the general consensus.
"Damndest thing about it" the fire chief said to his friend after six tall ones down at McGee's, "was that he was, well... at least to the M.E. it seemed like something... well, like something had half eaten him, some wild thing... like a dog, or a wolf, or somethin".
His friend stopped drinking, looked into the Chief’s eyes, and saw fear. He didn't say what he was about to say. He didn't say that that was impossible, like he knew. Because he wasn't there when the chief pulled the boy's body from the ashes. He wasn't there when the kids arm tore off, not from the burning, but from the teeth marks at the shoulder. He wasn't there when the chief bent down to see what was still smoking to find that album cover, charred and black, still putting out a thin trail of smoke. He wasn't there when the chief heard that laughter, and those strange bubbling noises coming from that album.....
