by Del Jackson
Chapter 3: Karaoke Quinn
“This must be the place,” said Drennen Quinn, rolling up curbside in the Japanese district of neo-Chinatown, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his El Camino. He was gripping it hard, nervous for his big moment tonight; the stage, the lights, the crowd, the song. The glory.
Drennen Quinn lived for karaoke night.
Joey Romaine, on the other hand, was too busy fooling with Koosh balls to notice. He had something planned, too, of a different variety entirely. Always a meta-farce with Joey, always looking for opportunities to drop his pants and fire a rocket. Erwin Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner, was in another astral dimension, curled up, a Metroid ball, slumbering.
Neon lights and Asian girls dancing everywhere, tempered with Buddha statues and pagoda-style architecture; incongruous sights, incongruous night.
They might as well have been in Japan.
* * *
Distinct murmurs, a veritable buzz, had started as soon as Joey Romaine lumbered into this basement dive bar/karaoke lounge.
“Sore ha kamo shire nai ka? [ Could it be...? ]”
“…sentakusa re ta tsu… […the Chosen One…]”
“Akira!”
The whispers continued to grow in pitch as Drennen and Joey enjoyed some saki, chatting, oblivious. In a dark corner of the room, no mistaking it, sat several Yakuza, black suits and black skinny ties, black Oakley sunglasses. All business.
“Harris Yulin is our greatest living actor,” said Joey.
“Who?”
“What do you mean who? The judge in Ghostbusters 2. ‘The Scoleri Brothers!’ I caught you taking a peek at me in the shower this morning.”
Drennen snickered.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“OK, maybe I didn’t, but you were on the verge.”
“I was checking to see if you were still in there. How long does it take you to shower?”
“Thirty five, forty minutes.”
“That’s crazy.”
“When else do I get a chance to read? Hey, you’re up.”
On the flat screen, clearly: Creed – Higher.
It was DQ time.
* * *
The applause was instantaneous, raucous, insistent. They said with their clapping: Who is this Drennen Quinn, native of Hotlanta, cool personified? And how can we find out more about him? The applause was still going as Drennen, with his languid gait, made his way back to the table. He felt alive.
Joey was on deck. What a clown show they were in for now. Joey Romaine, the orange bastard, buffoon comedy.
The light, humorous strains of “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (A Letter from Camp)” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?
♪♪
Hello Muddah,
Hello Fadduh.
Here I am at
Camp Granada.
Camp is very
entertaining.
And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining.
Hello Fadduh.
Here I am at
Camp Granada.
Camp is very
entertaining.
And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining.
♪♪
All the while flinging Koosh balls into the crowd, Rosie O’Donnell style.
“You’re all a buncha cutie-patooties!” Joey roared.
Utter, hushed silence. Primordial, really.
One by one, and then in numbers, they began to bow to him, these Japanese, convinced that he was their god, their orange, golden god.
All except for Boss Kimball, of the Yakuza, who would not be fooled, and who took none too kindly to the Koosh ball—SPLASH!—swimming in his Shirley Temple. In fact he was outraged, gun drawn.
“Kono hi no yatsu wo o shiharai itashi masu! Watashiha otokorashisa no goukanno geijixyutsude jixyukurenshita yo! [You will pay for this, Bozo! I am skilled in the art of machismo rape!]”
Outside, in DQ’s El Camino, Erwin Rommel stirred. Stretched. And went right back to sleep.
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