Broken Piano for President by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub

A few blocks from Winters headquarters, a giant stage was hammered together on a production lot. It’s a replica of an Olde-Tyme Hamburger restaurant, Victorian neon and all. The only difference is a missing fourth wall and the addition of studio seating for a few hundred.

Henry and Timothy Winters/Juan Pandemic haven’t been in the same room since shaking hands several days back at Olde-Tyme Headquarters. Hamler spent most of the morning with Tony, learning to aim a gun and obtaining a last minute concealed weapon license. The bandmates find one another in a dressing room behind the fake restaurant.

Cameras roll in a few minutes.

Hamler isn’t fooled by the new disguise. He recognizes his drummer even with the addition of facial hair. He spots those huge hands and dynamite-blasted teeth under a fresh Magnum P.I. mustache.

“Dude, what the?”

Behind a black bushy lip and under a stack of imitation hair, Pandemic’s jaw tenses. “It’s nothing, man.”

The two dance a tight circle around each other like stray alley animals. Pandemic in his getup looks as phony as pudgy Hamler in his fresh off the rack two-piece gray suit.

“Nothing?”

“Just, please, forget it’s me. I’m just some dude. I just want to get all this over with. Besides, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I just landed this temp job, I had no clue I’d get to travel, much less, you know...” Hamler smiles, but is annoyed, having to conceal his real job as a spy. The new take-charge guy buttons up that anger and cracks a jawbreaker between teeth. “Be…your …bodyguard.”

“Uh, yeah,” Pandemic says, stretching a rubbery yeah.

“Juan, man, what’s going on?”

Henry looks so pitiful Pandemic can’t hold back. “Well, okay, I won the big contest. I’m the guy. I guess you know that, though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, why did…” he trails off.

“Sorry?”

“What’s up with all this business?” Hamler says, scanning the drummer up and down.

“Everyone does this. Everyone who gets famous.” Pandemic scratches his scalp, the toupee droops to one side. “I don’t want people stalking me and shit. Now that I’m a thousandaire.”

Henry’s face twists into a skeptical mash. “Dude, please. Come on, give me something better than that.”

The cosmonauts, wearing signature blue jumpsuits, are spread in a constellation throughout the room. The beefy ones flirt with young production assistants in broken English. Keith and Sonja, desert-island skinny, watch each other from opposite couches, not speaking. Sour faces saying: I need an appendectomy, quick.

“Well,” Pandemic says and rubs a hand across his eyes. “Okay, well, you wouldn’t believe me anyhow.”

“Dude, look at us. Look where we are. There is a short list of shit I wouldn’t believe about you right now.”

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