Lord of the Band–Within The Mines Of Mariah Carey
Peter walked up to the door of the Mines of Mariah Carey; the swankiest, dirtiest, sexiest club in all of Keyport. He didn’t know how to get in, though. The door was locked, and no on would hear if they knocked. They could all hear the drum beat from outside, anyway, reverberating through their shoes.
Andrew looked at Jason. “We gotta get rid of that damned pony! You never ride it, anyway, and it’ll die in here.” Jason looked at the horse, knowing Andrew was right. But he hated to get rid of him. Sighing, he lifted his bag off the horse’s back, and shoved him off to walk back to a farm or some such.
“So, how do we get in?” Ryan asked, looking like he really didn’t want to go in at all.
“Oh, it’s . . . very simple,” Peter said. “We speak . . . some password, or another, and the door . . . should open.”
“What’s the password?” Shannon asked.
“I see something on this door,” Peter commented. “Seems to be in some sort of code . . . Blast it, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Elvish!!”
Kate sighed. There was a puddle nearby that Shannon had started throwing stones in. Depressed, because their journey did not seem to be going anywhere, she threw one in, too.
“Hey,” Andrew yelled. “Quit throwing stuff in the water out here! These people stink, you know that?!” He kicked the door. “You hear me?!?!?! You guys suck!!”
At that moment, silence clouded the area, and the door opened with an eerie creak. Kate, Jason, Ryan, Dolly, Shannon, Denny, Andrew, (don’t have a Legolas yet), and Peter tiptoed in apprehensively.
There, up on the stage, was a band. Now, this was not just any band. This was the epitomy of grunge for garage bands. Ripped vests, ripped, stained, tattered jeans, no shirts, greasy hair with bandannas tied around like headbands from the sixties . . .
As the Fellowship approached the stage, everyone continued to glare at them, and then suddenly, this grunge garage band began to play, starting with a lethal-to-the-ears guitar riff. The Fellowship covered their ears as best they could, and everyone could see Kate’s half-pained, half-pleasured expression at this “music.” Finally, Peter decided enough was enough. He started to move up towards the stage and got up to a microphone. He let out a booming operatic note, and the entire club went silent.
“That’s better,” he said, still booming his voice. “We just need to get past this club, and get out the back way, so if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to.” As he spoke, he started ushering the rest of the group up and across the stage. But then, a knife flew past Peter’s ear, and everyone stopped short.
“Nobody leaves here till they face the Balrog’s lead gal,” someone in the back growled. No doubt the one who’d thrown the knife. He gestured to the drummer.
“Mack, the knife,” he said. The drummer got it from the wall, and threw it back to him. Peter didnt back down, though. He kept ushering them forward. Oddly enough, no one protested.
“And who is this ‘gal?’ And I take it the ‘Balrog’ is this group of grunge waste you call a band?”
The entire club started laughing, and someone yelled,
“Hey, sweetheart, come on out!”
All of a sudden, the ground began to quake. As Peter and the rest of the Fellowship watched, from the opposite side of the stage, an enormous . . . they assumed ‘woman’ . . . came sauntering out. She was wearing a ripped lingerie top, sequined bra, knee high boots, and some kind of undergarment like the transvestite from Rocky Horror Picture Show. And ‘she’ was about five hundred pounds. She had a whip in her hand, and blubbered up like a sumo wrestler to Peter, saying, “You want to get past? Then get past me!”
Peter stood tall, shooing the others behind him. “Go back to the shadow,” he snarled.
“Make me.”
And as they started to fight, Kate tried to go to Peter’s aid, but the rest of the Fellowship held her back. Finally, when it looked like Peter might actually win over this whale of a woman, her whip caught his foot, and knocked him off balance, into the crowd. They carried him out, and as the rest of the Fellowship watched in horror, he gave one last cry.
“Fly, you fools!”
And fly they did, out of the back door of the club and into the night.
–Notes–
Thank you for your note. I hope you’ll come back and actually say something about an entry….(no, you’re not blocked. I mean, you at least took some effort to explain yourself.) I’ve read this, and your previous entry….and liked what you had to say, especially in the previous entry. Wishing you well. 🙂 [Rick 4.0]
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PS; Feel free to come back. You are not the typical “drive-by” noter I was referring to with my warning. [Rick 4.0]
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Poor Peter! boooohoooohoooo. Lovin’ it…need…more…. [HyacatDuncan]