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All Yesterday's Parties (Chapter 52)
🕑 Added 2023-09-14 21:44:00 +0000 UTCIn the chambers of Cherryaire's heart was loaded a bullet—
“You never know when it will come,” said an old man to a young lady. He had snatched her dainty wrist in time to save her from an unseen truck rounding the corner.
“It can be taken from you like that!”
With stunned, terrified eyes, the girl watched as the truck hurdled past, the shock of which brought her to tears.
“I'm sorry!” she croaked, shuddering violently. “I'm late to school on account of all the terrible thugs in the square, and I usually pass through on the way to school so—”
“Thugs? Tell me about it!” the man exclaimed, releasing her wrist. “This town used to be a place for a family, and now look at it— young girls running to their death in the street! You see this peace, this quiet?” he continued, gesturing to the idyll around them.
The young girl glanced nervously at all before her. Peppermint Plains was as still as ever in the late morning. Golden loaves sunbathed on housewives' windowsills while underneath young children drew bucolic breaths as they ran.
“You take it for granted, don't you?”
—aimed squarely at Peppermint Plains.
With a bang it erupted— a harking beacon of sheer noise which ensnared all in its vicinity.
“My God on Earth!” the old man shouted, running to the safety of the housewives' windowsills. A black Buick, gleaming in the sun, screeched down the cobblestone avenue of Peppermint Plains.
The young girl, who had been subsumed into the crowd pouring out of the houses, erupted in the largest expression of glee as they passed.
“Is that the Love You Forevers?!” someone beside her screamed.
“Yes, it is!” she cried.
Although no one could know it at the time, that cavalcade which split their sleepy little town's belly asunder was the most important gem it had ever carried to term.
—
“Peppermint Plains!” Sylvia's impish voice shouted as the car flew down the sloping hills which fed the roads of Cherryaire into the center of town.
“We're not stopping if you fall out, Sylvia!” Marion yelled, desperately trying to reel her in. Sylvia screamed, kicking at his attempts to pull her back in.
“Floyd, tell him to slow down!” Cecil shouted from the backseat, leaning over in between Marion and Sylvia.
Floyd reared his head around, his red jowls shaking.
“We cannot waste a single second!” he growled manically.
Cecil turned to Aster, who was dazed in bliss beside him.
“Talk some sense into her!” he pleaded.
They're not really going to kill her, right? Aster thought of her mother. She's just fucking crazy, is all.
A cold shock washed over her.
That doesn't mean she has to die.
Aster frowned, and cast her glum eyes over to the sight of Sylvia's body half out of the window. Her expression lightened. How would she ever survive without her antics? How else could she bear the conflicting feelings her mother's appointment had brought about in her? Why was her position towards the situation not one of total hatred? Did her mother not deserve to suffer after all the suffering she had inflicted upon Aster? Perhaps Aster was not as actually cold as she believed herself to be.
She grimaced at the thought, and felt the rustle of something against her chest. It was a copy of the record contract which she had been clutching against her body. The very sight of it was like a beam of light piercing her clouded gloom, returning control.
Stop thinking about it, you fucking idiot! You have a record deal! You know, the thing you've always wanted? It's in your hands now! Didn't you say you would give anything for it to happen? Well, then you can forget about her— at least for now.
She held it firm against her, smothering it in her embrace, as if it would become any less real if she let it go. She looked down at it, still disbelieving that it existed at all. But it did, and there was no stopping it now— whether they liked it or not, celebrity would have them.
With a heave, Marion and Cecil in joint effort reeled in their catch as the Benz cleared a hill. Altogether they cried as the car vaunted through the air, crashing into the road with a heavy thud.
“We're going to die!” Mareby-Roquefort shrieked as the impact threw the occupants up and down.
“Nonsense, we're almost there!” Floyd yelled, pointing towards the row of shops in the distance.
“Holy fucking shit,” Aster exclaimed under her breath, now freed from her fugue. You insane motherfuckers.
She turned away to hide her smirk.
The record shop, guarded by the now regular sight of Marion's men, came into view as their Mercedes Benz—hailed as a token of Kyrietone's generosity— skidded along the cobblestone, spewing behind it a haze of smoldering rubber.
“Floor it!” Floyd screamed as the shop grew nearer.
“Floyd, the crowd!” Cecil hollered.
“The world is next Mareby, the world is next!” Floyd exclaimed, looking with hungry eyes upon the people scattering in terror.
Mareby-Roquefort laughed in delight, procuring a pen and pad. “I have to interview; the world must remember this!” he yelled.
With a deafening squeal, the vehicle drifted into the finish line, coming to a stop just feet from the shop's entrance.
Floyd, not even waiting for the smoke to clear, exited the vehicle and ran.
“Sísí, grab the champagne! The good champagne— you know where I hid it!” he screamed, bolting into the shop.
All across the store Marion's men, lain over in various assortments of lazing, jumped to their feet at the sudden clamor. Moving on instinct, they hurried to tackle Floyd, causing a scream which rippled throughout the square.
“Mr. Floyd!” Sylvia screamed, flying through the doorless frame.
Marion's men were atop him, throwing punches.
“Back, back!” she shrieked, pelting their shins with quick kicks.
Marion, sprinting in after Floyd's exclamation, was aghast to see Sylvia had sent several of his men to the floor.
“Boss, boss!” Marcy screamed, writhing about the floor in an attempt to protect his shin.
Sísí, who had been at work on the poetry corner at the moment of the attack, was turned around in witness to the incident. “Of course,” she at last answered, rising and walking over to a seemingly nondescript section of floor. Procuring an ax which was hidden aside an aisle cabinet, she began to hack away.
Cecil, who ran in after Marion, stopped dead in his tracks.
“What the fuck?!” he shrieked, looking at Sísí in disbelief.
An angry warble came from Floyd, and he jumped to his feet.
“Cecil!” he shouted. “Since when have I had to scold you on language?!”
With a final swing Sísí cleared the top layer of the floor, revealing a secret door.
Aster, reading over the contract, seemed to not even notice as she walked in last.
Cecil was looking at Floyd, mouth agape.
“She just destroyed the floor, Floyd!” he stammered, gesturing wildly to the gaping, splintered hole. “You're not completely insane, are you?!”
From this secret compartment, Sísí procured a dusty bottle of wine and wiped the film of dirt away with one of her pale hands.
“Sísí, why are you listening to him?!”
“I never thought the day would come,” Floyd chuckled insanely at the sight. Pushing Cecil aside, he stumbled over Marion's men and towards Sísí, taking the bottle from her hands. “I put you away so, so many years ago.”
His voice trembled with reverence for the dusty bottle. A tear came to his eye, then broke and tumbled down his snow white cheek. “I never thought I would see the day,” he cooed with that same soft intonation, bringing it to his chest. The shop, all furor just moments before, held its peace for him.
“We are gathered here in honor of the honorable Albion Floyd Childress, who in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty-six, has finally become the manager of a signed band,” Sylvia joked under her breath.
Floyd, raising his eyes to the group, flushed red and smiled.
“The day has come!” he repeated, positioning the bottle outward from his chest. Taking a corkscrew from Sísí, he pierced the stopper and tore it away with a delicious pop, showering Johnny Vallerie's display in a rain of 1936 Cherryaire Red.
Aster, already delirious from wave upon wave of undiluted happiness, nearly fainted from the sight. Burn it! she screamed within her thoughts. Burn it into your goddamn mind! God is in the machine, and he's granted my revenge!
Not wanting to be caught with her manic smile, she fled to the other side of the shop, where Mareby-Roquefort was hurriedly hurtling food atop a table as fast as the town's shopkeepers (who could not miss an opportunity at free promotion) could hand it to him.
Sylvia's little blonde head, crowned with party hat rose as she squealed, "It's time to party!"
With that peeping bugle— the peppermint seventh trumpet— came a merry riot which would have made pagans blush.
—
“Could I say I wasn't in Rome? Why, probably— I don't recall the Romans assaulting anyone with a submarine sandwich the way that blonde girl did. Though she can't really be blamed, Sísí and the fire she started got everyone whipped into an uproar. All in all a fantastic event— you don't get too many of those around here; Peppermint Plains has been such a drag lately! Don't you think?”
Mareby-Roquefort energetically concurred, scrawling the man's words down on his pad as fast as he possibly could.
“Would you mind explaining what is Rome?”
“Rome? I have no idea, the girl with the eyebrows mentioned it.”
“And what did you think of the band?”
“Band?”
“What is your name, if I may have it for printing purposes?”
“Ah, August Oakley.”
—
A caravan, amounting to no less than:
25 shopkeepers and their wares
10 journalists which caught the angry eye of Mareby-Roquefort
3 keys to the 3 cities
2 angry old men
1 seller of used gramophones
Several dozen fans and a multitude of curious onlookers passed by Mareby-Roquefort and August, funneling into Childress Records like the mouth of infinity eating a dead star.
—
“Marion, I said keep them back!” Floyd screamed, kissing the bottle for its remainder.
Marion poked his head up and over the crowd, and turned to Marcy. “Marcy, get them out!” he commanded, waving him onward. Across the shop, Cecil was speaking to the smug face of Aster, who had retreated to the furthest corner away from the onslaught.
“Fourteen songs? Can you really do that again? It's seriously not a problem?” he repeated disbelievingly.
“What part of 'yes' do you not get?” Aster replied with irritation, yet hoping more than anything that anyone would ask again.
“A whole fourteen?!” Sylvia interjected, making her way over to the conversation.
Aster shuddered.
“It's not like it's that hard,” she feigned, regaining her composure. “I already have so many songs written.”
Cecil scrutinized her face, and seemed to accept the answer, though he remained visibly nervous. “Are you going to show them to us soon? We need to start practicing as soon as possible.”
“Yeah,” Aster replied, looking offended. “I just need to write the lyrics for them.”
Marion, coming in from the street, and approaching the group in time to hear the last few words, groaned. “How am I gonna learn fourteen new songs?!”
This outburst caught the attention of Floyd, who dropped his platter of cheese and assorted crackers. “You very well better!” he yelled from across the shop. “Need I remind you? You are now nine grand in the hole, Marion— and it's a very deep one!”
Marion was taken aback, and flushed with a slight embarrassment. “Do you not see everyone?!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the crowd his men were swatting at. “It'll sell like hotcakes no matter when it comes out!”
“It's not a joke, Marion,” Floyd replied bluntly. His face grew serious. “If the album does not recoup the advance, you will be in serious trouble.” Marion frowned. “What's your problem, man?”
“I am simply trying to impress on you that although we are celebrating, we are only now coming to the foot of the mountain!”
Faced with no response from a dumbfounded and irritated looking Marion, Floyd reiterated.
“I cannot bail you out if it goes wrong.”
“What?!” Marion exclaimed, his face deepening its shade of red. “Who said anything about— wait, you can't bail us out?!”
“No!” he chuckled. “I'm broke!”
“What?!” Cecil croaked.
“You're broke?!” Marion wailed.
Floyd stared blankly back at him.
“Yes. I have been for some time now.”
“What about the instruments you bought us?” Sylvia interjected.
“What about my kit?!”
Floyd crooked his neck with a bashful smile. “I took out a... little mortgage on the shop!”
“A mortgage?!” Cecil cried.
Floyd shook around the bottle, swinging it to and fro.
“Think of it as a loan taken out against your future!” he countered. “A symbol of how much I believe in you!”
“I always wondered how you held the talent show!” Sylvia lightbulbed, thinking back to the contest Floyd had thrown in search of Cherryaire's next big singer, “and started your own T.V. program at Apple Butter Channels!” she continued, referencing Floyd's failed attempt at a variety show.
Floyd laughed nervously, swatting away at Sylvia's endless epiphanies as Mareby-Roquefort came in.
What's with that smile? Aster observed, looking over at him.
“And then he had the—”
“Boss,” interrupted Marcy, approaching the group. “The Aspartame deal— it's settled.”
“Settled?” Marion repeated, looking at him seriously. “We haven't even picked a location— you didn't go ahead without me, did you?”
Marcy rubbed the back of his neck, smiling bashfully.
“Well, Sylvia decided it— Peppermint Plains Community College.”
“What?” he asked with significant incredulity.
“They wanted her to choose, boss.”
“Fucking pricks,” Marion growled, spitting out his toothpick. “A college, Sylvia? You couldn't have picked a shore-yard or some place tougher?”
Sylvia wrinkled her brow and placed her fists firmly at her sides. “I have to cancel my semester classes tomorrow, Marion! I didn't have time otherwise so you'll have to live!”
“It's a public place, boss.” Marcy added in.
Marion drew his face into his right hand.
“Boss?”
“Fine— it's on. But—”
A blood curdling scream tore through the shop.
What the fuck?! Aster exclaimed, looking up from the contract.
Through the smoke emanating from the poetry corner she watched as Marion, wasting not a second, hurtled through the aisles in the direction of Floyd.
“Mr. Floyd!” Sylvia shrieked, following after Marion. The onlookers outside had turned every eye inward toward the drama.
“Excellent tone,” Sísí murmured.
“Don't jump on the merchandise, Marion, you dolt!” Floyd shouted, pushing him back. He then turned his vision hungrily to Cecil, who, like everyone else, had run up to the scene in alarm.
“Cecil!” Floyd yelled in a deep growl.
Cecil was visibly indignant, his entire countenance red with anger.
“What gives man?! I thought you were dying!” he screamed.
A grin creased Floyd's lips. “No, I've never been more alive!” he cackled, throwing out his arms.
“There are friends who miss you, Cecil,” Sísí added, appearing beside Floyd.
“You beautiful, talented pianist, you!” Floyd sang, approaching him.
“I can't deal with this—”
“Would you not like to right some wrongs?” Floyd continued.
“To bury the hatchet?” added Sísí.
“What are you talking about?!”
“The red carpet, Cecil. A chance for you alone to place your band another step up the ladder!”
“Me? What about Aster?”
“Aster is joining me and Marion at school tomorrow!” Sylvia interjected proudly.
“There are some things that not even Miss Aster can do, Cecil.”
The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. Marion and his men were hurrying out of the shop.
"Cecil, please. I only ask of you this. Please grant me your time.”
Cecil looked at the both of them like he finally believed that they were truly insane.
"Do not kill the merriment, Cecil." Sísí whispered, drawing close to him. "Fatten it up like a sow, and then slaughter."
