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All Yesterday's Parties (Chapter 47)
🕑 Added 2023-03-26 20:39:10 +0000 UTC“Marion, is there not a more appealing way of going about this?” whined Floyd, peering out of his shop's window. Through it, he observed as a formation of Marion's gang stood watch, keeping at bay a large and restless crowd.
“How else are we supposed to do it?!” Marion shot back, insulted by Floyd's embarrassed tone. “You wanna have 'em all just stand in the shop?”
“Of course not!” he laughed incredulously. “It just looks so... obscene having the shop guarded by a line of—”
“A line of what, Floyd? A line of thugs?”
“No, no, that's not it, you cad! I just mean—”
“You wanted the store protected and that's what you got! If you want to complain I can just send them home!”
“You know full well that this situation benefits you as well! Need I remind you of my benevolence— a job for every member of your 'organization' within my shop? Why, I could have just as easily found a hundred people willing to work here for free!”
Marion frowned. Floyd was correct— his offer of employment to Marion's men as a response to the shop's increased traffic was perhaps the best turn of luck they had ever had, and Marion thus had no choice but to relinquish the argument.
“That's all beside the point, anyways. I called you here for an additional matter, beyond the protection of the shop.”
Marion was staring through the vacant doorway, not listening. “Aren't you going to get that replaced?”
Floyd looked out the doorway, then back at Marion.
“Listen, Marion— we have bigger problems! Chiefly, the bootlegging of your new single. It's rampant! Rampant!”
“Okay, but why are you looking at me? It's not my men, man. It's random tapers— pirates.”
“I want you to do something about it!”
Marion scoffed.
“What do I look like?”
“Someone who knows how scumbags operate!”
Marion, taken aback by this, arose from his slouched position.
“Scumbags? Would you like to continue that thought, Floyd?” he said, his tone crescendoing in irritation.
Aster, who had been waiting out the storm of activity in her room, was finally brought to the banister upon hearing the commotion from Floyd and Marion.
She slowly crept to the edge of the stairs and peered through the dowels.
Her eye was at first drawn to Marion and Floyd, sitting at the far side of the shop within Sísí's poetry corner. They were both red in the face, shouting.
Aster grimaced, and then her eye was drawn to several of Marion's men pouring in through the empty doorway. A commotion soon developed, and before long the shop floor was abuzz with activity from Floyd, Marion, and his men.
Aster's heart began to race as the gathering grew, and she drew away from the banister and returned to her room.
Come the fuck on! she shouted within her thoughts. Can't I get a single day of relaxation here?!
Reaching her room, she flung herself onto her bed and gazed up at the ceiling which she had by now completely memorized.
“Fuckers,” she mumbled under her breath, rolling over.
She had awoken that morning hopeful of spending the day in the way she spent most weekends at the shop— alone and free from anxiety.
The shop was closed on weekends, and outside of the occasional brief visit by Floyd or Cecil to manage inventory, they were her only refuge in which she could actually relax and unwind from the stresses of the week, as well as— most importantly— the worries of her actual life.
She needed this time more desperately now than ever, for her thoughts would not abate.
The recollection of yesterday— the image of March's pained grimace and the wounded tone of his voice— had haunted Aster ever since leaving the station.
She shook her head, as if to clear away the vivid sight of his misery, and admonished herself.
“Do not hate yourself, you fucking idiot,” she whispered under her breath.
She thought back to her exit from the station, and the crowd of fans which she entered.
She recalled a cry from her bandmates behind her— someone shouting her name and another telling her to stop— but as though in a trance she paid them no heed, passing into the gathering.
It was at first a complete mystery to her why she had done something so unbelievably bold— why she would willingly throw herself headfirst into one of her fears manifest.
It was only later that night, as she lay in bed awaiting the sun, that she understood the adrenaline rush and horrid mortification of their inconsiderate entrance had led to a temporary amnesia of self-preservation, hoping the exhilaration of giving herself up to the adoring mob might in some small way pave over the massive gulf of guilt which was beginning to grow within her soul.
She recalled how they snatched at her wildly— their screaming, hysterical faces surrounding her at every angle.
Aster's heart beat triple time, her chest tightening as the adrenaline quickly dissipated in the face of such horror. It was only through the quick acting of her bandmates coming to the rescue that she did not suffer a horrific panic attack right there.
The intensity of it hit immediately upon being rushed to Sylvia's van. Aster's body was wracked by horrific shaking, her thoughts scattered to the wind like potpourri wrenched from a pinata's gut.
The wild, confused stares of the fans, like a broken film reel on an infinite loop, hounded her thoughts with perfect clarity.
She shuddered at the idea of encountering them again.
She thought of how they would only grow in number as their fame did, and reached for her pillow and clung to it.
"Do not hate yourself," she whispered again.
"Do not hate yourself for putting your happiness first."
It was at that moment, as she held the pillow tight and inhaled a deep breath of shuddering worry, that another dreadful worry came to mind.
“It's gotta be soon,” she groaned, referring to her return to 2066.
She glanced over at a calendar which was hung on the wall.
There was no way to be entirely sure how long she had— the Eden device was never designed to be used intermittently, and thus an accurate conversion of time could not be deduced— but Aster had noticed that roughly two and a half weeks had elapsed in her previous visits before returning. She had last returned to Peppermint Plains just days before Christmas— two weeks ago— and so was now on edge expecting the gloomy sight of her apartment building to fill her eyes at any second.
Her heart plummeted at the thought of this.
To her great misery, the second interview with Marienne was lingering only a week away, and she had no plans for how to dance around her inquiries. She had of course attempted to concoct one, but the very act of mulling over strategies made her feel like she was going to go insane, so many times did she circle back and contradict her own thoughts in doing so.
She had finally reached a point where the chance of divining any scheme at all was beginning to seem impossible, and the very hopelessness of this was beginning to drive Aster frantic. It was for only one single notion of recourse that Aster did not completely give herself up to the overwhelming dread, nigh infeasible as the idea seemed.
Would it ever be possible to make this permanent? she thought, bringing to mind her deluded hope.
She had allowed herself to begin entertaining this idea as a method of alleviating her woe, if only temporarily. The very consideration of something so radical excited Aster greatly, and the futility of it only increased this feeling through the sheer boldness of even daring to hope in it.
Yet, she knew she could never expect Nancy, the woman who saved Aster's life and above all reiterated that she put effort into it, to allow her to give it up to the digital void.
Aster would consider this logical point, and then her ephemeral euphoria would fade.
That however, did not diminish the appeal of digital suicide, especially when taking into consideration Marienne's ploy which was introducing a whole new degree of manic anxiety into Aster's life.
Thus, the idea of surrendering herself to the Eden device and casting all that worry aside actually caused a small smile to form on her lips.
If only she could convince Nancy that such a thing would be better, she thought.
She grimaced again realizing that her hopes were founded upon air.
If there was any one message that Aster could take away from the few, cryptic details Nancy had divulged about the Eden device, it was that one should never become comfortable with it, let alone give themselves up to it.
Aster had in fact, once before, mused about this very hope.
At the time she brought it up merely as a curiosity and less a true wish, but Nancy's reaction intrigued her deeply.
Her expression had grown dark upon hearing Aster's question, perhaps even more severe than the looks she admonished her with when she had foiled Aster's suicide, and set upon Aster with graven eyes before speaking.
“This is not a toy, and this is not a gift. This is a curse which you exchanged for your continued life,” she said in a low voice, before turning away.
Like a child's rude surprise after sticking a fork in an outlet, Aster reeled back, inadvertently shuddering.
Nancy did not speak of it again, and Aster did not dare bring it up, so fierce had been her reaction.
Yet two weeks' time in Peppermint Plains spent mulling over the ordeal with Marienne, all the while awaiting an uncertain return back into her world, had chipped away at the hesitance. It allowed cracks in her fear to form, whereby devious, distraught hope had wormed its way inside and warmed her up to the idea of pursuing the hope somewhat seriously.
She could think of no other plan, let alone one more realistic, that could deal with the tumult of her life.
Thus, she stretched out on her bed and began a careful calculation of making such fancies reality, while the noise downstairs slowly defined itself once again.
—
Marion turned away from his men, who had entered the shop in a hurry upon hearing the shouting. As was the case with all of their quarrels, the two men, red in the face, broke at some childish point and returned to their original conversation, allowing the argument to die out.
“There's nothing I can do, man,” Marion reiterated, returning to his seat. “It's not like I even know who is flipping the tapes.”
“Is it not the Aspartame gang?” Floyd inquired. Marion shook his head.
Marion shook his head.
“No, they're working with us on the 'business,'” Marion said discreetly, despite the fact that his men, Floyd, Aster, and himself were the only people within the shop.
“Even better then! That should be plenty of firepower to get those rats out of their nests!” Floyd exclaimed with wild eyes.
Marion scrunched his eyes at him, trying to see if there was a sign of humor in his wicked laugh.
“Floyd, there's nothing we can do.”
Floyd turned pink at hearing this once again. Rising from the sofa he began shouting.
“Then what good are you all?! We're going to be ruined before we even start at this rate.”
Marion, equally furious, once again shot up from his chair.
“Why don't you just bootleg it yourself, then?!” Marion yelled.
Floyd, his face contorting wildly in passion like a slingshot coiling back for the next volley, went slack. He stopped and seemed to consider something.
Marion, expecting Floyd to boil over at his remark, was perplexed.
“This is why I keep you around!” Floyd suddenly guffawed, throwing his arms up.
Marion looked at him with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”
“Don't you see, Marion?! You said it yourself! We can turn our little operation into a proper business! We can get legal!” he exclaimed, seemingly a dance away from hopping on his feet.
Marion's look of confusion did not abate, and Floyd frowned.
“We can use your logistics to produce and distribute our single, Marion!”
He smirked at him.
“Imagine what a legal publishing house would do for the fortunes of your men.”
Marion's eyes opened wide.
“What do we have to do?” he asked excitedly.
“Well, lots of legal paperwork, of course— though that'll all be handled by Mareby-Roquefort. Would your organization be able to handle the demand?”
“We managed for Johnny's single,” he replied. However, coming across some unpleasant thought, he frowned.
“We're gonna have to deal with the Aspartame gang first. Like I said, they have a stake in some of the business— they provide men and equipment. If we go straight we'll need their okay, otherwise it'll mean war.”
“Sylvia. She can facilitate the deal!” Floyd exclaimed hopefully.
Marion considered this thought, and then as though embarrassed, turned away.
“Yeah, I'll arrange it.”
Floyd could not contain his glee at Marion's acquiescence, and alighted as he clasped his hands together.
“Those good-for-nothings won't know what hit them!” he exclaimed with his naughty smile. “Just imagine the scoundrels— no scruples about robbing someone's hard-earned creative pursuits! We've worked so hard! And for what? For them to steal away our positions on the charts before we can even get signed?!”
“When are we getting signed?” interrupted a voice suddenly from atop the stairs to Marion and Floyd's great surprise.
Floyd's shock was in fact so great that he visibly started, tripping over his tongue.
“I've— I've received a number of offers,” he stammered, embarrassed.
Marion turned to him stunned. “What?! And you're only telling us now?!”
Floyd turned away like a scolded schoolboy. Aster quickly descended the stairs and took a place beside Marion.
“They're not— enticing,” Floyd gave meekly.
“Enticing? A record deal alone isn't enticing enough for you?!” Marion shouted.
Aster was curious, but not as open as Marion to accepting just any deal, as she was knowledgeable enough to realize a reckless record deal had the potential to destroy them.
“What were the specific terms?” she asked quietly.
Floyd turned to her reluctantly, blushing.
"The other offers are particular about using their own 'in-house producer', as it were."
"Yeah, and?" Marion replied, confused at Floyd's hang-up.
"Well, naturally I would like to continue working with Mr. Theodora! I think he did an excellent job—"
He was cutoff by a look of severe reproach from Aster.
"I don't want to work with him," she said simply, glowering. The mention of his name caused her to recount the overhanded way with which he had scolded and ordered them around, and this incensed her.
Marion, too, scoffed.
"Not happening. You want me to work with the guy who's going to criticize my drumming?"
This remark caused Aster to glance at Marion with a look of stern irritation. Though he was on her side she was irritated at his confident ignorance, for his sloppy, out-of-time drumming was one point on which Vincent Theodora was correct.
Floyd looked at the two of them dismayed, but they did not relent.
“Show us the deals,” Marion reiterated, pressuring Floyd to bring out the letters he had received.
Aster and Marion marveled as he brought out no less than ten formal-looking envelopes, containing offers from some of the biggest record labels around.
Somehow the sight of seeing these offers in person, and especially at seeing their quantity irritated the pair yet more.
“You've got to be kidding! You were just going to ignore all these?!” Marion exclaimed, irate.
Aster too felt an intense pang of anger at seeing the letters, though she tried to keep the true extent of her rage under the surface.
She had gone to great lengths within herself to reconcile her attitude toward Floyd, and the mishaps which he had brought, but the sight of this and the thought of the damage it could have done their fortunes pushed her towards a near blinding rage.
They had waited so long for even the slightest morsel of attention from anyone, and now that it was being heaped upon them Floyd had stowed it away out of idiotic devotion to that has-been.
Aster angrily snatched up one of the envelopes, opened it, and began reading.
She did this several more times while Floyd ashamedly watched, before setting the final one down.
“This one,” she said, pointing to a particular envelope.
Marion looked down to read it, and lit up in amazement.
“Book the meeting.” she hissed.
