Aspen drove me down to the Hollywood Bowl, where they were rehearsing and conducting sound checks for a performance later that evening. As we arrived, the group was tuning up for their first number.
Aspen led me onto the stage. "Ok, guys, everything's under control. Mr. Guts here is going to look into the matter of these death threats, and put an end to them once and for all."
The lead guitarist turned angrily toward Aspen. "Look, ASSSpen, we're trying to get some play time in before the gig tonight, IF YOU DON'T MIND!!!"
A deathly silence ensued, until one of the roadies setting up equipment walked over and shook my hand. He was tall, thin, tan, muscular, and spoke with an Australian accent. "G'day, Mr. Guts. Pleasure to have you aboard. You'll have to excuse Chez Arrie, here. He just found out this morning that for the tenth time in a row he didn't win the Reader's Digest Sweepstakes, and he's really put out about that. By the way, I'm Gordon Allister, but you can call me Bruce. Don't ask why, though."
"Uh, right. You the head roadie, here?"
"That's right, mate. One of the best in the business, if I do say so m'self. But surely you want to know more about the band, eh mate? Well, Chez you've already met. Over there on bass is Hookie Jones, formerly of Scarred Salmon."
"Scarred Salmon? Isn't that the group that flipped off at the entire audience at a concert in Samoa?"
"That's right. Hookie was the only survivor. He don't like to talk about it much, though. Our keyboard man is Rommel; he's the token Nazi of the group. Say something in Nazi for the man, Rommel."
"Today Los Angelos. Tomorrow, Cleveland!"
"He's a kick, ain't he, mate? I tell ya, I've seen a lot of Nazi's come and go in the punk rock industry, but this boy's got talent! And back there, that's Og behind the drum kit." He motioned in the general direction of an emaciated, apparently comatose, long-haired humanoid of indeterminate sex, race and age, wearing a filthy T-shirt that appeared to have the remains of the Woodstock concert emblem on it. "We don't know much about Og. He never talks, sleeps, eats, or much of anything else, for that matter. One day, the group came in for rehersals three years ago, and found him behind the drums. Nobody wanted to touch him, so they left him there. When they started rehearsing, he began beating on the drums like a thing possessed. Since he played better than the regular drummer, they dumped him and replaced him with Og. He's worked out great, too. He doesn't need much, so when we go on tour, we just stow him in with the luggage. Saves us on hotel bills, y'know."
Chez was impatient. "Look, will you assholes go and solve your mysteries backstage. I've got better things to do than stand hear and listen to this crap."
Bruce shot back "Oh, pipe down, Chez, there's still the Irish Sweepstakes."
Chez was not amused. "Look, asshole, I don't need this crap from you..." As he spoke, he walked towards us. There was suddenly a loud crash. Where Chez had been standing originally, there was now the rubble of several very heavy stage lights.
Chez turned around to survey the situation, then looked at me. "Well, don't just stand there, asshole! Arrest somebody!"
TO BE CONTINUED...