Chapter Four: Photograph, Panama & Partying
"I'm outta luck, outta love
Gotta photograph, picture of
Passion killer, you're too much
You're the only one I wanna touch."
The four remaining members of Ömega watched Rikki in the isolation booth, laying down the vocals for one of the two covers that would appear on their debut album. Roxy and Jennifer, meanwhile, separated from the band by a wall of soundproof glass, oversaw the production of the album. The guitar, bass, and drum tracks had already been laid down for the cover of Def Leppard's "Photograph", and Rikki was in the process of finishing up the song by adding the vocals to the instrumentals.
"I see your face every time I dream
On every page, every magazine
So wild, so free, so far from me
You're all I want, my fantasy."
Roxy abruptly cut him off.
"All right, let's try that
again," she spoke through the intercom. Rikki glanced up, looking startled,
before indignance replaced his surprise as he growled, "Let's not! That
was a perfect take, there were no vocal imperfections whatsoever, and if
you think that there's anything wrong with it, then you're a bigger bi--"
"Rikki, let's not be too
hasty!" Jennifer spoke up, hastily cutting him off before he could send
their producer storming off. Roxy, meanwhile, was completely unfazed by
Rikki's biting words, and was saying calmly, "Yes, I know the vocals were
good, but I'd like to see you go a bit higher." Rikki's eyebrows nearly
flew off his forehead.
"Higher?!" he sputtered
indignantly. "I can't go any higher; this is as high as it gets!"
"Well, it's not good enough,"
Roxy replied sternly. Rikki glared furiously at her, as he began to get
agitated.
"Listen, I don't what your
*bleep*-ing problem is--Hey!" Rikki stopped abruptly, as he glanced around
at his surroundings. "Did the PA system just censor me off?"
"That's right," Roxy told
him calmly. "I do not tolerate any explicit swearing, unless it is for
the record. Otherwise, the isolation booth will automatically censor out
whatever profanity you can think of."
Rikki glowered at her, bristling, before snapping grouchily, "How much
higher do you want me to go? Isn't this already as high as Joe Elliott's
vocals on the original Pyromania record?"
Roxy was nodding.
"You're right, they are
easily just as high," she confirmed. "But they're not good enough. I want
you to blow the original "Photograph" right out of the water and outshine
the first version by going even higher than Mr. Elliott!" At this point,
Jennifer intervened.
"Um, Roxy? Isn't it a bit
unreasonable to ask the band to outperform the eighties' biggest arena
rock band on their debut album?" she spoke up, frowning. "Besides, Ömega's
trying to pay tribute to Def Leppard with their cover of "Photograph",
they're not looking to outshine them."
"Well, there's nothing wrong
with paying tribute to a band and outperform them at the same time."
Roxy shrugged at the simplicity of the whole situation, before turning
her attention back to Rikki, steaming and glowering in the isolation booth.
"Now Rikki, go higher on the vocals. I saw you perform that other night
at Valentino's, and you easily went as high if not higher than even Axl
Rose. Laying down these vocals should be a snap."
"Yeah, but there's a difference
between recording in the studio and performing in front of a live audience--"
Rikki started to protest, then gave up on trying to explain the adrenaline
rush that a live crowd brought to the performance, and grumbled, "All right,
all right, I'll go higher."
"Good," Roxy replied, and
began playing the version of "Photograph" that the band had already recorded,
sans any vocals. Rikki took a deep breath, and began to sing.
"I see your face every time I dream
On every page, every magazine
So wild, so free, so far from me
You're all I want, my faaaaaantaaaasyyyyyyy!"
*Crack* *Crack* *Shatter*
Jennifer blinked in bewilderment, as the studio itself seemed to collapse
under the supersonic attack, the supposedly soundproof glass separating
the producer from the band from Rikki in his isolation booth cracking like
crystal spiderwebs, before shattering into a million pieces. Roxy, meanwhile,
was as calm and professional as ever, as she tapped her chin with her index
finger and noted, "Hmm, so he can't go any higher after all."
Two Weeks Later...
Roxy surveyed the set, appearing pleased with the results. The abandoned aircraft hangar had been converted to resemble a giant arena with a minimum of twenty-thousand-seating capacity, and a stage had been placed in the middle, complete with flash pots rigged underneath and the name Ömega painted on the floor of the stage in sleek, metallic writing. The lighting had been designed to create a purple laser light show that would zigzag around the band as they performed live on the darkened stage, and Roxy's assistants had managed to bribe, force, and manipulate a makeshift fake audience to fill out the fake arena and go wild on cue. The entire elaborate setup was designed to make Ömega seem like seasoned rock veterans rather than the screwed up rookies that they really were; Roxy had even gone so far as to hire a bunch of strippers and crammed them into strategically ripped Ömega tank tops to pose as groupies and busty fangirls, and go wild on the front row. As a strong believer in first impressions, Roxy was determined that the band leave a good one on the public with their first music video--even though it was a cover song. If both the public and the big wigs at MTV and VH1 took an immediate liking to the band performing a well-recognized classic, then they would be more likely to accept Ömega's original songs as well. Or so Roxy hoped.
Just then, the band itself
emerged from their makeshift dressing rooms, and surveyed the fake arena
and fans. At Roxy's insistence, the members of Ömega were decked out
in the same clothes that they had been wearing when performing at Valentino's
on the night they were signed, although what she hadn't told them was that
the reason for her request was because a lead singer and lead guitarist
running around in skintight black leather pants stood a better chance of
scoring points with the female fanbase than they would wearing anything
else. Roxy walked up to the empty stage to meet the band, calling out instructions
at the top of her lungs in an effort to be heard over the chatter and noise
of their fake audience.
"All right, what we're going
to do here is pay some tribute to the original "Panama" video yet all the
while making the entire video that of a live concert performance. No cruising
around in a red sports car, no smoking in front of a grand piano, no sliding
down poles, no drummer peeking out from underneath a lady's fishnet-covered
leg, and most certainly no front man getting hauled out of a hotel by police
wearing only handcuffs and a towel!" she began. "Now, as all of you should
know, the most memorable parts of the "Panama" video were when all the
band members were swung across the stage on bungee chords."
Rikki's eyes bugged out, and his red contacts nearly fell off, as he
gasped, "Wh...wha...what?! You want me to sky dive across the stage on
a frickin' piece of string?!"
"No," Roxy appeased him.
"As the front man, we're going to add something extra by having you jump
up and onto the stage from a hidden trapdoor amidst an explosive burst
of pyro."
Rikki shrugged, relieved at being spared from the bungee jumping.
"Oh, okay then," he muttered,
when Jericho suddenly thought of something and cut in frantically, "Wait...wait
a minute! You want me to be thrown across the stage and muss my perfect
gorgeous hair?!"
"No! I said we were going
to pay tribute to the whole swinging like a pendulum across the stage on
bungee chords, I didn't say we were going to do the exact same thing!"
Roxy yelled. Jericho looked relieved.
"Oh, okay, then," he chirped
brightly, echoing Rikki's words. Roxy, after having calmed down, proceeded
to lay forth her vision of the music video.
"What we're going to do,"
she began to explain, "is to drop all three guitar players down onto the
stage from bungee chords. Then, right before the vocals start, the lead
singer will explode onto the stage--literally--by springing up from a hidden
trap door built underneath the stage and emerging in a shower of sparks
and pyrotechnics. And then the band is just going to perform live and interact
playfully with each other and with the audience, especially Rikki, who
will lead the crowd into a sing along during the chorus of, "Panama!" by
aiming his microphone stand toward the audience. Got it?"
The band shrugged.
"Got it," they muttered
in unison, and began climbing onto the stage, with Roxy shouting out directions.
"Okay, Jericho, get behind
your drum set! Lance, Pietro, and Morgan, stand ready to be attached to
the bungee chords and raised high above the stage and near the ceiling!
Rikki get into your secret compartment underneath the stage and prepare
to jump up on cue!" she hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth to
increase her decibels.
Pietro glanced around nervously
as a bunch of technicians attached wires and chords around his waist.
"I don't know about this,"
he complained, watching as Lance and Morgan were also helped into their
bungee chords. "I mean, what if the thing breaks or some other accident
happens? I mean, what if the idiots lowering us down drop us onto our heads
or something?"
"Relax, Maximoff, nothing's
gonna happen," Lance assured him. Morgan, meanwhile, giggled happily as
the technicians tried to attach the bungee chord around her tiny waist,
squealing, "Hey, that tickles!" Finally, the technicians finished their
jobs, and handed Lance, Pietro, and Morgan their respective guitars, who
proceeded to shoulder on the straps around their bodies and stood to be
lifted off the stage. Meanwhile, below on the stage, Roxy was shouting,
"'All right, places everybody! Hey, you people in the front row! Yeah,
you! I paid you good money to act like slutty fangirls, so start skanking
around already, and you better make it good!" After she had gotten everything
set up just the way she liked it, Roxy sprinted off the stage, slid into
her director's chair, and yelled dramatically, "And...action!"
The playful intro to "Panama" started blaring over the sound system, and right on cue, the technicians dropped the three Ömega guitarists hard and fast down onto the stage in blurs of flashy colors. Unfortunately, however, nobody had taken into the account the actual sizes of the guitar players. First down was Mini-Me Morgan, who, at barely four foot eight, turned out to be too short to actually reach the ground, and dangled comically a good two feet above the stage, flailing her legs about and wailing, "Hey! Somebody get me down!" And as if that wasn't bad enough, the opposite happened with Lance, who was actually too tall to be dropped down on the length of the bungee chord, and ended up falling flat on his butt, smacking his behind dangerously near a flash pot and setting it off. A spark of pyrotechnic explosions lit up the stage prematurely, as Lance hollered, "Yeow! My butt!" Apparently, it turned out that the leather pants he'd been crammed into were highly flammable. Pietro, fortunately, turned out to be of just the right height, and was lowered down onto the stage without incident, landing gracefully on his feet and immediately proceeding to tear it up onstage with his rhythm guitar, happily oblivious to the predicaments of his fellow guitar players. Roxy sighed, as she yelled, "Cut! All right, people, let's adjust the length of the bungee chords next time, get Morgan down before she goes off on another one of her Spaz Trips, and for God's sake, somebody please extinguish Lance's flaming ass!"
Jennifer frowned, biting
down on her lower lip as she read over the scathing review by some MTV
bigshot. Sighing and repressing the unfamiliar urge to flip the bird to
the bitter old MTV cronie, she finally settled for simply closing the window
and turning to face Roxy.
"You think we should let
the band get a hold of this?" she asked quietly. "They'll be so hurt to
find out that the first review of their music video is so terrible, and
actually goes as far as condemning them as a watered-down third-generation
crew of Van Halen poseurs."
Roxy sneered.
"Well, well, well, who would
have thought that the two-faced, Britney-worshipping assclowns at MTV knew
such big words?" she scorned, not at all intimidated by the scathing review.
Jennifer shrugged, before making a mental note to refer all future bashers
to Roxy for a tongue-lashing from that day forth.
"Still, it's not fair to
keep the band in the dark about these kinds of things," she murmured hesitantly.
"I should probably go talk to them, and see if I can gently ease them into
this review."
"Oh, uh...it's not really
a wise idea to go looking for them right now," Roxy muttered quickly. Jennifer
arched an eyebrow, beginning to look wary.
"You mean they're not in
the studio?" she guessed, already knowing what the answer was going to
be.
"Hey, what's the point of
keeping them locked up in the studio after they've finished recording for
the day?" Roxy spoke up defensively. Jennifer ran a hand through her hair,
as she grilled the producer/publicist for more details.
"So where did they go?"
she asked in dismay, dreading what the reply was going to be.
"Oh, nowhere that they can
raise hell or anything like that," Roxy mumbled. She then cleared her throat,
as she added casually, as though seeing nothing wrong with what had happened,
"After tidying up around the studio, the band ran off to some strip bar,
dragging a kicking and screaming Morgan with them."
Jennifer nearly rocketed right through the ceiling when she heard those
words.
"What?!" she gasped
in horror. "How...how could you let them?! In case you haven't realized
yet, most--if not the entire band--are not even of legal age!"
Roxy scowled, as Jennifer continued to holler and sputter and generally
freak out.
"Hey, hey, hey, it's just
some Jack Daniel's and a bunch of dancing girls," the dark-haired producer
muttered grouchily. "What's the big deal...?"
Jennifer, knowing the band's spectacular track record after their recent
hell-raising at a hospital--a hospital, of all places!--had already
grabbed her coat and shot out of the studio before Roxy had finished speaking.
"I'm outta luck, outta love
Gotta photograph, picture of
Passion killer, *hic* you're too much
You're the only one I wanna *hic* touch."
The rest of Ömega noisily
joined in with Rikki, and sang out the opening lines of Def Leppard's "Photograph"
in a loud, drunken stupor. Onstage at the Girls! Girls! Girls! strip club,
the all-sluts--um, that is, all-girls--house band, appropriately titled
Vixxxen, glared down at the noisy patrons, before their front woman whined,
"Boss, they're stealing our thunder!" The owner of Girls! Girls! Girls!
shrugged, before taking the cheap cigar out of his mouth and grumbling,
"So take your tops off or sumthin'!"
"Oh, okay!" the front woman
replied cheerfully, as Vixxxen resumed its set.
The members of Ömega,
sans Pietro, meanwhile, were crowded into a booth near the front, laughing
obnoxiously about everything and nothing (since that is what ten
shots of whiskey and fifteen glasses of red wine can do to a person) and
generally annoying the customers who were trying to concentrate on their
lap dances. Just then, Pietro returned to their table, carrying with him
some nice fistfuls of cash, and Rikki brightened up as he sang out happily,
"Hey...now we can finally afford some champagne! It's about damn time!"
He would have gone off on a tirade about the overpriced champagne and said
something more, but a wave of drunken hiccupping and insane giggling took
over, and the band was thankfully spared. Morgan glanced up from the giant
turkey burger she was working on, as she trilled in a nasal, high-pitched
voice, "Hey, where did ya get all that green?" Pietro grinned, before proudly
replying, "Oh, some pathetic old fat guy was trying to stuff these down
a stripper's G-string, so I, being the chivalrous gentleman that I am,
stepped in and told the fat bastard to stop harassing the nice slut, and
when he wouldn't listen, I had no choice but to intervene by force and
take the money away."
"Aw, that's so *hic* nice..."
Morgan crooned, as Rikki reached over to take the money away from Pietro,
waving the bundles of green wildly in the air as he sang out, "Waiter!"
Just then, Vixxxen finished
their third song, a horrific cover of--you guessed it, Mötley Crüe's
"Girls Girls Girls"--and Ömega promptly responded by booing loudly.
"Aw, that's the worst-sounding
shit I've ever heard!" Rikki sang out obnoxiously. Clearing his throat
as he stood up and puffed out his chest like some He-Man going off to battle,
the dark-haired lead singer started toward the stage, taking a total of
all but three steps before he stumbled and fell, giggling madly.
"Oh, no!" Morgan shrieked.
"Someone call an ambulance! Rikki's having a heart attack!" Fortunately,
nobody paid any attention to her, and with Lance's help, Rikki was soon
on his feet again. This time, he started tottering unsteadily in what was
actually the opposite direction of the stage, before smacking full-force
into a, ahem, top-heavy girl wearing nothing but feathery white lingerie
designed into the world's naughtiest nurse's uniform. She glanced up at
the tall, dark-haired youth who'd bumped into her, working her full mouth
into a pouty, seductive smile as she purred throatily, "Hey there, tall,
dark, and handsome. Care to go to the back?" Rikki looked down cluelessly
at the busty stripper who'd attached herself to him, before mumbling, "Oh,
no, I ain't going backstage, I just want to get onstage." And he disentangled
himself from the stripper and resumed stumbling forward, this time in the
right direction. Rikki reached the stage just as Vixxxen's guitarist struggled
to go into the riff that opened Poison's "Talk Dirty To Me", pulled himself
up with no problem, and promptly shoved the lead singer off the stage,
who went tumbling down with a nasal shriek.
"All right, you pathetic
horny bastards who can't even score with your inflatable sex dolls!" he
began in a loud, obnoxious yell directed to the Girls! Girls! Girls! patrons.
"Let's get some real music in here!" And before anyone could stop him,
Rikki promptly began belting out the lyrics to "Photograph", as Vixxxen's
guitarist and bassist glared over at him while the drummer, comfortably
nestled behind him with a strategic view, busied herself with checking
out Rikki's leather-clad ass.
"I'm outta *hic* luck, outta love
Gotta photograph, picture of
Passion *hic* killer, you're too *hic*much
You're the only *hic* one I wanna touch."
By then, the other, equally drunk members of Ömega had clambered onto the stage next to Rikki, shoving off the crappy guitar and bass players of Vixxxen as they joined in on belting out a stunning rendition of "Photograph".
"I see your *hic* face every time I dream
On every page, every *hic* magazine
So wild, so free, so far from *hic* me
The other members of the band stopped expectantly, as Rikki took a deep breath, somehow having remembered Roxy's instructions to go higher than Axl Rose, Joe Elliott, and Robert Plant in their prime combined, before shrieking out in a keening, abrasive screech, "You're all I want, my faaaaaantaaaasyyyyyyy!"
*Crack* *Crack* *Shatter*
*Shatter*
"Aaaaaiiiiieee!!!" The strippers
who'd been dancing inside their glass cages wailed, as Rikki's shrill scream
succeeded in breaking all the glass objects in the strip club, and patrons
scrambled up to catch the fallen hooters as they were dumped unceremoniously
from their shattered crystal enclosures. Meanwhile, a gloating Rikki preened,
"See, I so totally can go higher!"
"...And another thing, Missy,
if I ever, ever see your crew of jackasses within a one-mile radius
of myself and my lovely sluts--um, I mean, my lovely ladies--I am going
to have the swarm of bloodthirsty lawyers on your ass so fast, you won't
have time to call for a defense attorney!"
Jennifer sighed as the owner of the Girls! Girls! Girls! strip club
yelled at her, and surveyed the scene, including all the glass that Rikki
and his Mighty Screech O' Doom had shattered. Why had she thought that
this would be different? Ömega had found a way to get a lawsuit thrown
at them from a local hospital, of course they would have found a
way to raise hell at some strip bar! Gingerly stepping over a discarded
blue thong, she began to apologize profusely.
"Um, did you by any chance
hear them say where they would be going next?" Jennifer spoke up timidly
after she was done apologizing. The strip club owner scowled venomously,
before biting out, "No, I didn't! They got their hands on a review by some
MTV assclown, and set out looking for blood before my attorneys arrived."
Jennifer's eyes widened in dismay.
"Oh, no..." she groaned.
Just then, her cell phone
began ringing, right on cue. Jennifer sighed tiredly, as she pulled her
cell phone out of her coat, before placing it to her ear and greeting,
"Yeah?"
"Um...oh, no, wait, I forgot
your name again! Hold on a second!" the bumbling male voice eeped, and
Jennifer rolled her eyes, already knowing which band member Ömega
had selected to call her. Meanwhile, back over the other end of the line,
she could distinctly hear Jericho ask frantically, "What the hell do you
mean you don't know what her name is?!" Rikki's annoyed growl replied back,
"I mean I don't know what her damn name is! Just make something up or whatever!"
Jericho and Rikki exchanged some more angry words, before Jericho picked
up the phone again and spoke to Jennifer, "Uh...Ginger, right? That's your
name, isn't it?" Jennifer rolled her eyes, and decided that it wasn't worth
correcting the bumbling blonde for the ten thousandth time.
"Fine, fine, my name's Ginger,"
she grumbled, as Jericho gloated, "Yes! And Rikki thinks I'm an airhead,
ha!"
"So, got yourselves into
a load of crap again, huh?" Jennifer demanded.
"Um...yeah? Think you can
bail us out, Ginge?" Jericho eeped in a tiny voice. In response, the brunette
manager sighed, before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Sure, sure. Here, just
put the critic on the line and I'll apologize for you," she instructed.
"Uh...that's not quite what
we had in mind," Jericho spoke up. Jennifer started up in alarm.
"Well, what did you
have in mind?" she asked cautiously.
"Um...we meant bail us out,
as in literally?" Jericho squeaked out guiltily. Jennifer nearly hit the
roof, as she hollered, "What?! How the hell did you land yourselves in
prison over a freakin' review of all things?!" Jericho eeped again, before
replying, "Well...you see, we kind of found out the hard way that assaulting
a bitter know-it-all MTV jackass--no matter how much everyone hates him--will
still land your ass in jail!"
*All right, end of Chapter Four. Chapter Five is where the band will be doing all the publicity appearances to promote their forthcoming album, including a radio show gone awry involving front man Rikki Stixx, and even the Toxic Twins--um, I mean, Lance and Pietro, *coughcough*--dropping by unexpectedly at Rogue's TRHell! See ya then! ^_^
