The Further Twisted, Sick and Demented Adventures of Sam Sonata
Music Dick - Chapter Six


Sam Sonata
Sam Sonata's ears I should have known better. Leon's advice was nearly worthless. The rapper known as Tumult had recently escaped an attempt on his life and had gone into hiding. It took a couple hours of Lawrence Welk's Polka Party to force the information out of one of my stoolies. Almost got to me as I watched the tears stream down the junkie's face, but this is a heartless business and somebody has to do it.

Tumult ruled the current airwaves with his blend of violence, drug abuse and gang life. His videos pushed the limit with extreme bdsm, guns, and abuse of women. He was always surrounded by a large contingent of rough thugs and gorgeous women. I knew I was in for a tough time.

It was nearly afternoon drive time by the time I made my way to the rotating Fuque Towers. These were an arrangement of five exclusive highrises with one tower rising high above the rest in the middle. I slipped the well-armed security team positioned in the lobby and rode the service elevator to where the rapper had sequestered himself in the middle finger penthouse suite.

I reached the door and rapped softly.

"Who is it? Is that you Damone? Do you have my Peking Duck, sweetie?" a honeyed voice came from within.

The door flung open and I burst inside with my 45 drawn. James Taylor should be pretty effective against this bunch.

The interior of the room was much smaller than I had imagined. Row after row of outlandishly ludicrous feathered and sequined clothing hung along both side walls, and colorful shoes and boots of every style were neatly laid out beneath the clothes. At the end of the room was a huge round bed surrounded by mirrors. I expected a posse, but there was only an expressionless older woman running a sewing machine who didn't even look up as I entered.

Tumult came out of what I presumed to be a bathroom dressed in a white rabbit fur bathrobe with white leather thigh high boots. He shrieked when he turned and saw me.

"No, don't hurt me! Tell Big Baby I'm sorry. Don't kill me - I'll do anything!" He dove under the sewing machine.

I lifted the cowering man off the ground and placed him on the couch as the woman continued her cross-stitching.

"So you're Tumult, huh?" I asked with a smirk, remembering his tough guy persona. I recognized him without the shades. "Didn't you used to be little Bobby Jones - the tuba player for Westside High? Finally got rid of those braces, huh?"

"Shut up!" he screamed.

"Listen - I'm not here to kill you! My name is Sam Sonata and I'm a music detective."

"Are you going to beat me?" he asked hopefully.

"No! I'm looking for a girl."

"Could I change your mind, you big lug?" he asked.

I pushed him back down and showed him the picture of Melody.

"So what - I don't know her," he said with a pout.

"Wasn't she one of your hoes?" I asked.

"Who knows - I don't pay any attention to them. Breeders - they all look the same to me."

"Where do you keep your uh stable?"

"Stable? Where do you get your information? Those bitches are just props from the prop department. I wouldn't touch one with a ten foot pole. You know what they want - sex and babies and shit like that. And they cost a fortune - forget that!"

"So you claim you don't know Melody Littlesong? Maybe a little Pat Boone would freshen your memory?

"No! No! Ok - I know the chick. She used to come round and try to get me to listen to stuff like Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin and all that Lilith Fair crap. Hell, I don't even like music - brings back bad memories of the tuba. I just found a way to make a buck and I'm going to ride that gravy train as long as I can. Told her to go jump, but she kept coming back for some jungle fever. Bad luck for her to latch onto me."

"When did you see her last?"

"I don't know - maybe a couple weeks ago. You probably heard about that little incident with Big Baby shooting at me with a stinger missile. Now the music cops hassle me, and the Rhythm Kings are after my ass. Why can't everybody leave me alone? I'm a nice guy - I don't bother anybody? I even wrote a song telling kids to go back to school-"

"To kill their teachers - yeah real nice."

"Hey I'm doing my part - my accountant says I'm donating some of the rejects from my clothing line to some needy kids in Beverly Hills or someplace, and my Tumult Liquor is running a series of ads against drunk driving."

"Wasn't that part of your plea bargain for killing those kids drunk driving last year?"

"Hey - I'm still doing it aren't I. Damn kids shouldn't be playing in their yards that time of day - could get sunstroke or something."

"You're some piece of work, Tumult. Your mother must be real proud of you."

"I'm sure she is - aren't you Momma?" He addressed the sullen woman hunched over the sewing machine who barely raised her eyes in acknowledgement.

"So no idea where Melody Littlesong is?"

"Heck no. You could try to beat it out of me?"

Suddenly the door opened and a large burly, tattooed man entered carrying Chinese Food.

"What the hell?" he asked and reached for the Korean fighting compact disk in his belt.

"Don't worry, honey - Mr. Smith was just leaving. He was selling magazine subscriptions and stopped in and we had the most wonderful chat."

The rapper leapt to his feet and gave the big man a sloppy kiss.

"Damone here is my uh business partner. We met in prison before I got my career off the ground. I'll certainly let you know about those magazines if I hear from her, and I trust you will be discreet in return."

He winked at me as I went out the door.

"I may be a badass, but I'm a bitch in bed," he whispered.

I rode the service elevator back down to the main floor and went out the back doors into the alley. I hated the creep in the penthouse, but he was only doing what his white predecessors had been doing for years before him - selling sex and violence to feed his own greed. But I didn't have to like it.

So my visit had been a waste. I still didn't know where Melody was - and time was running out. Tumult and his ilk were running things now.

Suddenly a cd whizzed by my head and shattered against the brick wall. Three more disks flew toward me. One hit against my ribs, another glanced off my temple leaving a gash. The beating of drums filled the air and I was surrounded. The Rhythm Kings.

I tried to pull a BeeGees 45 out, but a drumstick hit my hand and a heavy cymbal knocked my knees out from under me. I looked up to see a crowd of surly looking percussionists eyeing me with bad intent. The crowd parted and a skinny white midget walked forward.

"Enema," I gasped. The man before me was the notorious survivor of the Atlantic Isle Watertrailer Park sinking and author of the infamous Wrapping Paper - that called for overthrow of Musictown by drummers and an elite corp of cowbell clankers.

"So gumshoe - what brings you to visit our dear friend, Tumult?"

"Fugue you!" I spat.

"Let me beat him like a drum!" a tough holding some mallets snarled.

"Later. Let me give him some of this first:

Hey music dick
You think you're strong
I'll take a rhythm stick
Beat you like a gong

Woodblocks and clave
Make a man limber
We'll make you a grave
Stretched on a marimba

You can beg and cry
And ask us to stop
But you just may die
With a clippity-clop

Don't make no fuss
Like a rattle you shake
Eavesdropping on us
Was a big mistake

You're in the Everglades
Of all your fears
And the crocodiles now
Will cut off your ears"

"I hope you cut better than you rhyme," I snarled, but they held me down and I shuddered as I felt the severe pain cut through me as my outer auditory organs were detached with razor blades. Then they were gone.

I picked up my ears, and bleeding, staggered back into the building - crawled up the ninety-nine floors and scratched on the familiar door.

I remembered Tumult's shocked lipsticked face, a bottle of expensive champagne running over my wounds, his Momma's unsmiling face, and the loud whir of the sewing machine in my ear hole as I passed out.

To Be Continued...
Chapters: One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Seven - Eight - Nine - Ten

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