T.G.I.K.O.A.W.!

_Early Edition_

Friday walks down the five stairs of the gantry from the official King Of All Weekdays hovercraft. He waves to the multitudes which have gathered on the banks of the canal. They hang from the windows and balconys of old European styled buildings, and throw confetti and bouquets of flowers - and they peer dangerously from the tops of modern skyscrapers throwing streamers and lingerie. (all of the objects above fall well short, and drop onto gathered below) They stand hundreds deep on the streets -and some womenfolk are perched on the shoulders of men. A few blocks down a security services tank sits nearly invisible, it's armor and gun covered like a chia-pet, with citizens sitting, standing, crouching, trying for a better spot to see. High above a Red-Baron styled tri-plane tows a huge banner that reads, "Welcome Back Again!"

Friday turns his head left and right to take it all in, and gives a wave in as many directions as there are people. The crowd goes into a frenzy! They cheer, clap, whistle, wave back, and some even expose the best parts of the human anatomy that usually remain covered in public. Friday walks another twenty feet to where a modest podium sits. Behind the podium, is a massive wall of speakers hundreds of feet high, and at least an acer or two wide. Friday dribbles his voice into the microphone,

"Hi there."

It comes out of the speaker wall at eighteen billion watts, and promptly breaks every window within two square miles. Hats fly from heads! scarves and coats pick up and dance backwards! People stagger - their faces look as if they were undergoing a NASA g-force test! After the initial sonic blast - it's a good thing the wall of speakers is blaring out eighteen billion watts, because nobody in the crowd would register a human voice (even shouting) for weeks afterwards.

"Ooh, sorry," Friday says, looking startled and apologetic, but still releasing another assulting blast of sound from the speaker wall. He realizes it's too late to stop, so he adjusts his tie-knot and plows ahead.
"I was in a spot of being overwhelmed with requests, of showing up early, making plans, being relied on...so I decided to try an experiment. This experiment was so dangerous that it could not be undertaken in this universe. I...you might find this hard to believe, but I traveled to another dimension, and had myself cloned."

At this exact moment, six stealth bombers flew overhead in a precision wedge formation. To the ringing ears of the entire crowd, they made no sound, and finally, truly, lived up to their name. In fact, over two million eyes didn't notice a military fly-by, and it wasn't caught by cameras. Friday continued.

"I actually had myself cloned five hundred thousand times...since that's about the number of Friday's you all seem to need - and even then, that's one of me for some eighteen thousand of every one of you...rounding of course." Friday takes out a silver flask from his sportscoat, unscrews the cap, and has a long pull. He fastens the cap back on and tucks it away.

"To be blunt..." The mega-amplified voice of Friday continues, "It was such a horrible failure, that the only way to contain the catastrophy, was to completely destroy the dimension that contained five hundred thousand me's. Believe me when I say," Friday says knowingly, "that wasn't an easy task. I'm pretty resourceful!"

A million people laugh. And nobody there heard anything but ringing through their ears.

"Anyways, the experament revealed that after a factor of two - there became too many conflicting desires, and too many equally matched powers for anything but a befuddled mess to occurr. No fun, no occomplishment, just conflict. It turned hideously ugly. In fact, had we not demolished the dimension, most everything would have exterminated itself, and whatever remained (or computer models suggested) would have been forced into a pre-civilization neanderthal like existance...and I don't have to tell you that couldn't have been too much fun!"

Heads nodd in agreement, as people, just normal folk who like Friday, who have been trying to wrap their heads around these words, finally have something tangible to deal with. Then a huge black hull drifted down the canal, between Friday and his audience. A supertanker drifted up without a sound and was made fast, and a gangplank came down. Behind another massive hull, and another, and another and another and another.

"And since I've been gone for a while..." Friday speaks to his now mostly obscured audience, "I've got something special planned! Hop on board, real quick-like! There isn't much time!"

On the other side of the canal, people rush up to board the gigantic ships. Friday turns and walks away from the podium. He makes his way, down a staircase of brick to the edge, where a massive and yacht-like hydrofoil waits. He springs down a walkway onto the ship, where he returns the salute of a white uniformed Captain who appears to have been waiting for just this moment. The Captain spins about and moves off to the windowless bridge of his craft, and Friday opens a door set in the superstructure, and walks down a teak-panneled hall. After passing ten doors, Friday turns and walks down a stairwell which emerges in a luxurious room where Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday sit around a huge television, playing Madden 2006. Wednesday lets out a triumphant yell as his fullback powers through the goal line defense. He stands and hi-fives Thursday!

"Who's winning?" Friday asks.

The four weekdays look back.

"All tied up." Says Monday. "Nice to have you back."
"Thanks. Good to be here."
Tuesday picks up a glass from a coffee table and drinks a big sip.
"So..." Wednesday waves his controller in a sweeping arc as he speaks, "You done with allllllllll that?"
"Yeah," Friday moves a little closer, "Done deal."
"I guess the question is," Thursday looks up with a straight face and voice, but happy eyes, "What are we going to do tonight?"
The others wait transfixed for the answer.
"I put together ten drilling platforms, linked them with bridges, helicoptered in eighteen great bands, fifty DJ's, and enough liqour to get Europe drunk. Should be fun!" Friday looked excited about it.

Tuesday leaned back in his chair and made a sour face.
"Don't want to rain on your parade, I mean it sounds like fun, but everyone that's coming is going to be deaf for weeks."
Firday let an "Ahhh..." slip from his lips. "See, the sound system that's set up beats the one here...I mean, I know it's going to piss off the whales and dolphins, but they can swim away pretty quick."

"But what about the people Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "They won't be able to talk at all!"

Friday stood there for a second, watching the replay of the video game touchdown.
"That's the cool part. You think a million people can get along at a party without talking to each other? I mean, you think they'll get the gist of it, of everything without words getting in the way?"

The four weekdays reacted in different ways, and with different speeds, but all began to smile and nodd. At that moment, and not a second sooner, the hydrofoil took off, and flew down the canal.

An Exerpt From Chapter 2

Remember...this is done backwards (from chapter 1)....

2

THURSDAY:

18 hours later, Jersey wears a black bra, and black panties, brushing her teeth in the not-so-dirty bathroom of her apartment. Beyond the scattered clothes and clutter of a woman who lived a bohemian life, there were paintings. The wall by the door was covered with them. There wasn’t a crack between them from floor to ceiling. Elsewhere, leaning up in rows, they jutted out two or three feet into the room. Two easels still stood by the window, each holding a half-completed work, and their legs propped up more paintings. Her television was on, where a busty weatherwoman pointing out a high-pressure system, but the volume was off.
She came out of the bathroom, drying her lips with an old t-shirt that read, “so you say you want a revolution.” She took a can of Miller Lite beer off the coffee table, and drank what was left in it. Then she went to the fridge for another. She took big drinks from that, while she looked over her scattered clothes. She found a red T-shirt that she wanted, and threw it on. It had “I Want Your Lust” printed on it. She found some fishnets, a cute thigh-high skirt and a not too lethal pair of stiletto boots.
Looking at herself in a mirror hanging from the back of the bathroom door, she teased her black, pink, and red hair into the semblance of a bob, and stuck a couple of bobby pins to make random tufts pop out.
The phone rang, and she threw herself into the easy-chair before picking it up.
“Hello?”
“You ready?” Tom was on the line. “I’m outside.”
“Be down in a sec.” She said, and hung up.
She looked at herself one more time in the mirror, ripped out the bobby pins, and instead, threw on a red L.A. Dodger’s cap and left.
Tom sat in double parked in the street, in a beat-up blue 1985 Jaguar sedan. Even though it was old, it still kept most of it’s class. Jersey hopped in to the passenger seat, and the door closed behind her with a solid “chunk.“ She leaned over and gave Tom a peck on the cheek.
“Ready?” He smiled.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Tom slid the car into gear and drove off. Tom cut through traffic like a good cabbie (which, in fact he was) and had that irritating way of catching nearly every green light on the way. In eight minutes they glided into a reserved parking space at the back of the Mundane Gallery, off a small side street in Chinatown. Someone had spray painted the back wall with a stencil that read “You’re Not Ready For Murthy Turfern!” It was a phrase that had appeared some months ago, and in so many places, it was probably a movement of some kind. Tom and Jersey slipped though the back door, without commenting.
The Mundane Gallery was a small affair, four rooms set in a square, two in the front, two in the back. Each was connected with a square arch to each other. They passed a D.J. in the back room, along with a table holding crackers, cheese, and plastic glasses for boxed wine. The place already had a small crowd. About thirty people were scattered in groups or individually, looking at the pieces on display, or just talking. For effect, a very well-dressed Latino was making out with a tall Brazilian he had pinned against a wall.
Penny Fortune skipped up and practically leapt into Tom’s arms. She was a trifle on the small side, with a touch of chub, but in that really cute way. Usually a blond, tonight she was red-headed. She gave him a kiss, and lowered herself to the floor. Then gave Jersey a hug.
“I got something to show you!” She grabbed Jersey’s hand and began to lead her off to the next room.
“Nice to see you too honey!” Tom said after them, and went back to the table with crackers and wine.
In Penny’s room, there was a nice selection of ten ink and watercolor paintings hanging from the wall. She had sort of a cute pop-culture fantasy style, where various tiny girls were locked in deadly combat with giant robot creatures or demons. They were, however, done with stylized perfection, as if Geiger decided he wanted a few super adorable girls to combat his monstrosities, and blow them up to 48“ by 32.“
She dragged Jersey past all this to a table set up in the corner. It sat under a thick woodcut black-and-white poster, of a woman with long hair, holding a fishing pole, reeling in a leaping Marlin. It read “WOMEN WHO FISH” Artcrawl July 17th. Various pamphlets, flyers and cards lay scattered on the table with various incarnations of the poster’s logo.
“My god Penny! They’re great!”
“Yeah,” Penny beamed, “just got them back from the printer today. Here,” she grabbed a small box of business cards and shoved it at Jersey. “These are yours.”
Jersey took the box, but realizing she had nowhere to put them, put them back on the table.
“I’ll get them later.”
“Holy fucking shit.” Penny said in such a serious voice that Jersey looked at her, saw Penny’s eyes, then followed them into the next room. Vic Mitchell stood in the next room, looking at one of Jersey’s pieces.
“He’s taller than I thought he’d be.” Jersey says.
“Fucking Vic Mitchell Is Fucking Looking At Your Fucking Paintings.” Penny shoves Jersey towards the arch. “Go in there And Fucking Talk! To! Him!”
“Allright, stop pushing.”
“And get him to come over here next!” Penny doesn’t stop pushing.
Jersey composed herself, and started walked through the archway, shooting a look back at Penny. Then as confidently as she could, walked right up to Mitchell‘s side, and looked at what he was looking at. It was her piece called “Nymph and the Cowboys.” It was of a slim nude woman with perfect tits, on a mechanical bull, set in the middle of a western bar. Surrounding her was a crowd of leering, predatory, and lustful old cowboys who watched. It was, at least, a good piece.
Jersey’s mind raced to find something, anything appropriate to say. It had to be smart, and clever, and interesting. Then she realized she didn’t have anything like that ready to say. Vic Mitchell saved her any more nervousness.
“That’s fucking great.” He said, to no-one in particular, but obviously sensing Jersey’s presence.
“Why,“ Her voice came out a bit more broken than she would have liked, but she soldered on. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s ridiculously beautiful. Hot as fuck, impossibly desirous. They’re ugly as shit, hideous. The mere fact that they want her, makes me sick…the fact that I, like them want her, makes me a part of them, and that disgusts me more. But, she’s still fucking hot, and I don’t think she cares about anything but being desired. So,” He turned and dipped his head a little to look under the bill of her Dodgers cap, “I think it’s fucking great. What do you think?”
For a second the blinding thought, ‘I’m in a conversation with Vic Mitchell!’ blazed through her head. It almost overpowered everything else and sent her into a panic. Then a small, but very calm voice spoke in the back of her brain, “he just asked you a question. He’s interested. Pretend you‘re on his show!” And that helped her a lot. Of course, there was still too a long pause. But, she looked up at him, under the brim of her Dodgers cap. She managed a cute, shy smile. And then she threw herself at him through words.
“She’s a slut. I think she’s going to take at least one of them home and get fucked, and she’s going to take perverse pleasure knowing the rest of them will be masturbating to her memory. I think she’d be happy as fuck if some of them whipped out their old cowboy cocks and started whacking off right there in a big circle-jerk. Yes, I think that would make her happy.”
“Jeeezus!” Vic said, his whole face cracking up with laughter. “They were right!”
“Who? About what?”
“Aaah, a website I read that had a review of the Mundane Gallery. They said -it’s got an edgy crowd, with edgy works. Or something like that.” Vic put his hands in his pockets, and kept a smile on his face. “Sooo, do you know the artist that painted this horny slut?”
Jersey beamed a sweet smile at him, now without a trace of self-consciousness.
“I did. I’m Jersey Jane.” She stuck out a hand, and he shook it.
“I’m Vic Mitchell. I dig the hell out of your work. It‘s impressive as fuck.”
And in the total perfection of a moment, brought on by the fact that she more than occasionally liked to say the word. So, whether it was her, or fate that wanted it to happen, it spilled out of her lips like it was a moment of destiny.
“Likewise.”
And although it was a mere finger-snap of time for that one word to escape her lips, it was a word Mitchell respected. In fact, it was the kind of word that made him pay attention. It was the one word in the entire English language that made him perk up his
ears and wonder, “what the fuck does the person that says “Likewise” actually have to say?”

An Exerpt from Chapter One

WEDNESDAY:

It’s night, and Jersey Jane stands in line at the grocery store, holding a basket with 8 packs of Ramen, 4 cans of slim fast, a plastic bag with 8 apples, and a jar of Vlassic pickles. She looks over the tabloids by the register, and her eyes read the headline, “Vic Mitchell - THE KING OF LATE NIGHT” Underneath in smaller font, “How the once too graphic for television comic became bigger than Lenno or Letterman.” She throws her items on the conveyor, and pays for everything with crumpled one dollar bills she pulled from her cargo-short-pants pocket. And she counts all the change. Every last penny.

Jersey’s home is a small studio apartment, set in an old junky Hollywood brownstone. Even though nobody’s cared for it for decades, it still has a ton of charm. She enters carrying her small sack, and the daily mail. She kicks the door closed with a ripped fishnet covered leg, and combat-booted foot. Then throws the mail onto a stack of bills, envelopes and junk mail resting precariously in a tall pile, on a tall side table. The keys follow, tossed haphazardly. They hit and spin across the table, knocking half the mail-stack to the floor. She sees the keys don’t fall, and walks past. In the kitchen, Jersey unloads her things in a bare cupboard and nearly empty refrigerator.

Two easels stand by a double window overlooking a parking lot, and beyond that, just a wedge is visible, of Hollywood Boulevard. She fiddles with a canvas on one of the easels - the one closest to the window. Jersey throws some paint on, but lackadaisically, the form of the bridge and birds she’s working on, transforms a touch…but her eyes are pulled towards a huge grade-school clock mounted above the television, which silently and gently, sweeps towards twelve. After a bit, the clock wins. She gives up, sits down on a ratty Laz-y-boy and knocks a button on the remote with a slim paint-spotted index finger. Her television clicks on - the only nice thing in her place.

The tail-end of a Chevy commercial ends, and the opening of the Hullabaloo show hits like a ton of bricks. A big band on a bandstand, sits on a polished black marble stage. They play Big Spender (it’s the Hullabaloo theme -and they always do it different, and they always do it justice) and tonight, it spills from the mouth of a gorgeous brunette who’s lips were clearly the cameras desire. She wears a red evening gown cut with equal shades of elegance and slutty allure. Her shoes are pure stripper, her legs something to kill for, and her bust-size would cordially be called “ample.”

“So let me get right to the point,” She croons, runs her hand over her breasts, and sucks on her finger for a split-second. “I don’t pop my cork for every guy I see…Hey Big Spender! Spend…a little time with me.”

And the music builds into a big band climax that doesn’t stop. Instead it gets faster and faster. The horns drop out and the drummer begins knocking out a drum-solo that makes Gene Crooper sound like a hack. The band rips back in with a punk-psychobilly vibe that the brunette matches with her luscious voice turning harder and faster along with the song.
“The minute you walked in the joint.” She spits out - her mouth now a machine-gun of words. “I could-tell you-were-a-man-of-distinction-a-real-big-spender. HEY BIG SPENDER! SPEND-A-LITTLE-TIME-WITH-ME!” She finishes screaming “me” that moves from pleading to anguish to desire, to pure hate, all in one breath. The band is rocking at breakneck speed, and then on a dime, and not a second before the brunette finishes, stops.

The crowd goes crazy. People are on their feet cheering - not at all prodded, just blown away by a brilliantly cool performance, and at that moment, to nearly deafening cheers and claps, Vic Mitchell walks onto the stage.

Honestly, he stands there for a good three minutes while the crowd goes nuts. Whether they’re cheering for him or the band, it’s impossible to say. He’s handsome, tall and slim, sort of Carson-esque, but a little thicker, and with dark hair that’s begun to sprout some frost of gray. He has a baritone voice, plush as red velvet, and there’s a twinkle in his eye, like he’s known all the fun things the devil‘s been up to.

“Good evening” He says softly, aware that the audience is louder now than the P.A. When he speaks, enough of the crowd falls quiet, that the next words can be heard.

“Good evening, and welcome to the Hullabaloo Show. I’m your host Vic Mitchell.”
The audience goes ballistic. The crowd rises up with a roar like a wave pounding towards a cliff. Ear piercing whistles fall from the balcony, people are literally insane.

“Okay, okay…look I’ve been noticing something.” Mitchell takes his hands and reaches up above his head-above the level of the cameras, and grabs a mike hanging off a boom. It’s one of those square old-fashioned chrome ones-like Elvis used to sing into. He crams it into his face with both hands and speaks in a soft whisper.

“Russians, Serbs, Iraqi’s…” He stops for a moment, then turns, crouching down on one knee, hiding his face with the back of his dark well-tailored sports coat. He repeats the words.
“Russians. Serbs. Iraqi’s.”

The crowd is silent, waiting on every soft word. He says again.
“Russian. Iraqi. Serb.” God there is a pause. Like a real pause. Like, twenty seconds of dead airspace. An eternity on network television. Then he screams, “SERB!”

“Can the United States just for once!” He pivots up and faces the audience with a sweeping gesture connotating the crowd and viewers as the whole world, as America. He pauses, and speaks very softly again, “Just for once, can’t we have a conflict with a people that don’t have, A FUCKING SCARY-ASSED NAME!?!?”

Vic paces the black marble stage, “Howabout we first deal with MICRONESIA! Next - howabout we take care of Luxembourg? After that…” He peers over the chrome mike stuck in the front of his face, framed there by his two hands, straight into the cameras and right into people’s homes, “After that we’ll take on that Pussy-Assed-Named nation of El Salvador. Jesus Christ - “The Savior?” they’re begging for an ass kicking! Then Uruguay! Pussies! And after that Iowa! I suggest we start fighting countries we can BEAT!”

“I’m from Iowa!” Shouts a man in the audience, Vic looks up in his general direction.
“Then sir, I tell you that America is tired of your aggressive nature to your neighbor states, your oppressive regime, your numerous human and more importantly ANIMAL RIGHTS violations! I’ve heard what you bastards do to goats, and dogs…and won’t somebody please think of the SHEEP! I FOR ONE AM TIRED OF YOUR SHEEP FUCKING! THEY CAN’T SAY NO! ALL THEY SAY IS BAAAAAH! And after we’re done with MICRONESIA, LUXEMBOURG, EL SALVADOR, AND URAGUAY - WE’RE COMING FOR YOU! FUCKING IOWANS! WE WILL CRUSH YOU! SHEEP FUCKERS!”

The crowd is rolling. Vic Mitchell stands for a second looking hate in the heckler’s general direction, like he‘s hated Iowa with a passion for years…then his handsome face breaks it’s look with a bunch of movie-star teeth. And to the desire of everyone watching, he cracks himself up.

“C’mon I love the hell outta’ Iowa! Hawkeyes! Des Moines! And God Micronesia’s soooo CUTE nestled down there with all it’s little archipelago. Look - tonight we have a great show planned for you, so let me introduce Stan Tucker-Willmington the IV! Yo Stan!
Stan is in a black suit, black tie, black shirt, black hat and black sunglasses, and white wingtip shoes. He flips his finger along the edge of his hat in a salute to Mitchell.
Hanging from his neck with a black leather strap is a wicked black Les Paul L-5 with silver pegs, bridge and pickups that gleams in the spotlight.
“Victor, how you been man?”
“Real good Stan, you?
“My hamster Virgil died the other day, it’s got me bummed.” The audience sighs sympathetically.
Mitchell looks sad. “I hope you’re going to be okay.”
“Well Vic, he was always biting me anyways. Turned out he died of rabies…looks like I’ll have to get that checked out.”
Mitchell and the audience crack up.
“Then Stan,” Mitchell says, “Before you start foaming at the mouth, howabout you do that VOO-DOO that YOU DOO!!?”
And with that, Stan rips the beginning notes of Benny-Goodman’s Sing-Sing-Sing off his gleaming axe like his fingers were bringing down the word of God. The band behind him, explodes into a pure orgy of those great notes, it nails it. And while this is happening, Vic walks to his desk.
Jersey Jane’s phone rings and jars her out of the show.
She reaches over and answers it. It’s Tom.
“Are you ready?”
“Fuck you.” She mumbles.
“Nervous?”
“Fuck off. What are you doing up at this hour?”
“This hour? I’m always up at this hour. I’m plugging the hell out of you on my blog.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“I get a thousand hit’s a day. Fuck, you think that’s nothing? …Okay, well, I expect great things.”
“You know exactly what to expect. I’ll see you tomorrow, fucker.”
“Sweet dreams sweet talker.”
She hangs up the phone. Her eyes are pulled to a stack of flyers on the coffee table. An evening at the Mundane Gallery (they read) featuring, Penny Fortune, Jersey Jane , and Emily Tantrum. The cheap paper flyers are decorated with a logo in a thick wood-cut style, of Lady Liberty, Artemis, and a mermaid.

She looks back at the clock, which reads 12:12. On the television, Vic sits at his desk, and there is a cutaway to where studio security is pulling the heckler from Iowa from his seat, and dragging him down the hallways of the studio, and out into the parking lot. They surround him with big black shirts.

“And make no mistake about it people, “ Vic says over the footage. “I will say anything in order to catch America’s enemies off guard.” The camera jerks around in the parking lot, as the security detail pulls out pistols. The Iowan screams.

“NOOOO!” The camera cuts to black, but in the true definition of overkill, about a hundred shots ring out. The Iowan makes various statements during the hail of bullets. “Owch, Oooh! Arrg! Ieee! Oh, that hurts! Oooph! Dear god no! Stop!”
There is a close-up in on Mitchell at his desk. He points a pencil at the camera.
“And that, is how we handle sheep-fuckers at the Hullabaloo Show. We’ll be right back!”
Jersey kills the T.V., and flops onto the bed.

We're Up and Running...and running...and running....I'm getting tired

Here Comes Bat Rastard Burlesque!!!!