The Baton Breaker

by HealthCorkscrew28

What would happen if Whiplash, had an alternate ending, a parallel timeline? In The Baton Breaker, you will find out, though it's not just the drum skins being beaten.

Samhain/Halloween 2023

Original Story/Creepy Pasta

"The Baton Breaker" A Short Horror Story inspired by the film "Whiplash"

The blood ran down the drain, in the back alley, leading to the stage door of Carnegie Hall. This was a dark, gory concerto, performed with the utmost zeal, and the red pool beneath his feet, no longer shouted the odds like the booms of Arturo Toscanini. The beater of skins truly had become the beater of skins, by breaking his baton, and indeed the man. Sandy Lyemon, the self-taught, self-called Baton Breaker, has killed the knowingly difficult, but otherwise nationally loved maestro, Lawrence Metcher.

Reads like a news article, doesn't it? Paints him as the victim, and me the monster, huh? Well, if your brain is easily washed up by the right guy, wearing the right suit, saying all those words that lazily satisfy, listen up! Listen to truth, listen to vindicated venting, listen to me!

I was four, when I got my first kit, and the moment I started beating, I started talking, opening a conversation to the entire world, well, it was Wilkinson Avenue, but it was the beginning of a lifelong journey. My Pops, a former beater himself, and my Uncle, whose love for the big band swing was well known, catapulted me, to rooms filled with cigar smoke, harmonious chops, and of course, interesting people, full of interesting thoughts. Just like any other industry, you've got to fuel it with money, but of course in such circles, where glitz, glamour, and smelly mouldy greenrooms are concerned, a fair bit of wedge is spent on booze, and boy could my Pops put it away!

In the basement, I continued to bash out my exercises, doing what I thought was a decent rudimentary impression, of both Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa. I then looked down at my ten-year-old hands that used to be so soft, but now were developing the dimples of callouses, and I thought, perhaps this was the start of me becoming a real man. After a few hours, Ma called down to say that dinner was ready, but something wasn't right in her voice. When we sat down to eat, I saw Ma trembling, wearing what I thought was some overzealous eye shadow at first, but when I glared attentively, I realised it was something else.

"What's that Ma?" I asked, in order for her to clear up my concern.

"It's nothing dear, now eat your rinds." Ma responded, with the typical tone of a strong woman, trying to protect her family unit.

"Where's Pops?" I asked again, as him skipping family mealtime, was very unusual indeed.

"He's not hungry at the moment sweetie." Ma replied, shaking even more at the mere mention of him.

As the pork slid down my throat, an unnerving thinking process began to whir. Though I was only ten, I knew about certain bad things that happened in families, just a couple of blocks away, a friend of mine, Chad, his older sister, Kylie, stayed out late at night, in order to raise more money for the family, and I saw the same horrid smudge on her face, the same one I saw on Ma's, at the dinner table that evening. The joke, that Chad kept on telling about Kylie, I didn't get at the time, but of course, I do now – Kylie's purse was always bouncy, full of rubbers! I don't where she is now, but she's most likely in bed, and not her own.

A couple more years pass, and I was now fourteen, and the situation that had become so excruciatingly apparent, was still going on. It seemed that Pops and the bottle were now married to each other, and Ma was just a third wheel, nagging, pleading for things to return to where they were. However the momentum of the process of this life, was too strong, as were his strikes, and I myself felt a change within me. There obviously was some fear in me, but with my new habit of grinding my teeth so hard, until some of the enamel rotted off, I was getting angry, and the fact that I enjoyed hitting things for fun, it was becoming a somewhat dangerous mix, to my own conduct. My life then, was like three parallel train tracks, on one track, my competence and enjoyment of drumming, was blooming like a gorgeous spring garden, but on the other track, the two people who I still loved dearly, delved deeper into the insufferable cliché of domestic violence, thus, were intensifying their fights, and amassing more reasons to dislike each other, via the concept of overbearing familiarity. And of course, the third track, my inner volcanic wrath rising, waiting, for the right time to strike.

The following two years comprised a perfect storm, in the house. Pops was getting so annoyed at Ma, even when it came to watching her soaps. She didn't have a clue what was going on in terms of the plot, but still religiously watched them, as if it was some sordid ritual, so she could join the rest of "zombie America."

"If you don't know what the fucks going on, why watch it, you stupid bitch!" Pops slurred.

"Oh shut up, it's "Days of Our Lives" and you knew we used to watch it together, you forgetful smelly bastard!" Ma would retort, highlighting the fact that Pops hadn't washed in days.

Their verbal violent tennis match would go back and forth, and then would explode, leading to the inevitable, Pops getting up to exact the "caveman alpha male's" right to physically educate his woman. That's if he could, as his stumbling on that particular evening, was to a high capacity, thus his aim, like your typical American shooter, was reassuringly off. I beat my drums louder to the music down below in the basement, to drown out such a sad mundanity, and I began imagining that the skins of the kit, were the skins of mankind, so in my "palatial" mind, I was beating sense into such a clumsy talking monkey species. But to escape such a damaging fantasy, and in order to get away from the upsetting tirades, I noticed an ad in the paper, saying that downtown, there was a big band session, held every Wednesday and Friday, and I noticed that the guy leading it was Charlie Metcher, son of the legendary Lawrence Metcher. I also realised in the local magazine they were low on drummers, quality drummers that was, so I thought in order to start my own life's adventures, on one cold Wednesday evening in November, I'd snook into the back seats, to watch and more importantly listen. My muso critic brain kicked in, and though the melodic chops from both the brass, and axes were on par, the rhythm section was a little lacking. I could just about make out the disappointment, from the bass player's face, as if she was saying "who the fuck is this? And which dumpster did they find him in?" After a muted applause, the session ended, and I looked at the clock in the hall, "shit!" I thought, I had to go back. But before returning to the cauldron, I took a try out slip for the role of drummer, in the hope that things would get a lot better, but of course when I got home, the oh so familiar shouting and din greeted me, so I took the oh so well acquainted back windowed door entrance, that lead back to the basement, or the "drum room" as I called it now, so I could both finely tune my craft, and beat out some heated frustration.

It was the holidays, just after my sixteenth birthday, and my new custom signature Gene Krupa 5A rebound sticks, and Zildjian A custom cymbal set, were well received, and although the tempest of hurt still whirled in my home, there was a concentrated effort from all of us, to ensure that some peace was enjoyed over Christmas. A great treat was about to come on the TV, Carol Reed's production of Oliver! As well as loving the live big band, I also loved musical theatre, still do. I'd seen pretty much all of the Lloyd Webber's and Rogers and Hammerstein's, but this one, Oliver! I had yet to see. I knew some of the songs "Food Glorious Food", "Consider Yourself" and "I'd Do Anything" via some shocking covers from high school theatre kid wannabes, but to see them performed, properly, and within the concept of the story, it was something that was particularly interesting and exciting for me. I was having such a great time, and it was coming to the scene where Oliver was being handed over to Mr Brownlow, by Nancy at London Bridge, but the underlying question that was lodged in my mind, "would this peace last for long?" Was answered, with the utmost misfortune. Pops looked outside the window and saw Ma kissing the next-door neighbour, Jeff in the alley way. Though at the time, I felt betrayed too, it was clear that she felt underappreciated, and unloved from Pops at the time, and she looked to Jeff, who I found out was a former high school flame of hers, for comfort. Nevertheless, Pops called a spade a spade, and he went outside to deal with them both accordingly. At the time, both the TV and real life, in tandem were showing the brutality of life, as it was at this point in "Oliver!" Bill Sykes catches up with Nancy and was now beating the hell of her with a shillelagh, and then I looked out the window to witness the real horrors outside my home. Pop was like

Conan, hammering everything in sight, he was attempting to kill Ma. Within me was a bubbling, the same sort of bubbling I imagined that Vesuvius had, before blasting all over Pompeii. I tried, and tried, but the red mist was already on me, and I couldn't control it anymore. I went to the basement to get some strong 5B mallet beaters, ran back upstairs, into the street, down the alley way and…

"HEY STINKBREATH!" I shouted with the grimaces of grimaces.

"WHAT!" Pops screamed back.

Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack! I wasn't counting, but in my core psyche, it did come to thirty-nine, the same number as Jesus Christ Superstar. Thirty-nine lashes, no, thirty-nine hits, upon my father! Although it was a great natural relief to erupt like a volcano should, I still has a sober thought, what the hell had I done!? Looking down at my bloody Pops whilst Ma and Jeff looked at me in horror. All that could be heard on what was now, a solemn icy Boxing Day, were the crows cawing from the treetops and the reprise of "Consider Yourself" in the end credits on the TV. A most opposing contrast. Such a happy song, acting as the soundtrack, to such a bloody scene. After the quickest of pauses, I threw the mallets in a nearby pond, ran downstairs to pack both my breakables (sticks, cymbals, and snare), and a small overnight bag, then I ran as quick as I could to Chad's house.

"I FORGIVE YOU! I'LL PROTECT YOU!" Ma shouted at me in a muffled tone, whilst I ran as fast as I could. At that time, Jeff was tending to Ma's wounds, and they were now waiting for an ambulance.

I couldn't respond. The main concern for me was to get the hell away from there, because, if I killed Pops, my chances of making the try out, would be over, and juvie and county would beckon, and I wasn't willing to trade a big band tux for an orange jumpsuit.

Luckily Chad was home alone, as his parents were out, at their work's Christmas party, and surprisingly, he was having a little one himself.

"You've got a little outhouse yeah!" I asked Chad with an urgent tone.

"Whoa, Sandy, hey! Hello to you too, and yeah dude, it's just right behind you, needs a bit of clea-" Chad responded, but was cut off by my earnestness.

"I fucked up man, it finally happened!" I started.

"Whoa, whoa, chill dude. What happened!?" Chad asked with a concerned glare in his eyes.

"I've killed him!" I began to sob.

"Your Pops?" Chad replied with his loaded question in an obvious, but also shocked tone.

"Yeah…well…ermm…I think I have" I spluttered, becoming the world's newest lost soul.

"I knew that you and your old man didn't get along, and especially the last five years, even I think he's had it coming, but whoa! Wait! Are you saying to me that I might have a prospective murderer in my yard? GET THE FUCK OUT!" Chad exclaimed, with me accepting the severity of the situation.

"No, no, no, no wait, please wait Chad, can I leave my stuff here, and sneak back round, as there was an ambulance coming, and I might be able to see if the old coot is still alive?" I said, stumbling on both my words and breaths, like a poorly timed drum fill.

After a couple of minutes of deliberation,

"OK, go! And if he's still alive, come back, but if there's a body bag, no way am I allowing you back!" Chad responded.

"Thank you, thank you!" I said in a most vehement tone of gratitude.

I went back home the back way, where the woods met the houses, so I couldn't be seen. Sure enough the beacons were flashing, both Jeff and Ma were being attended to by the medics, and to my absolute luck, Pop was propped up on a chair in the back of the ambulance, tethered to a machine. He was in such a state, and I was disgusted at seeing my desolation. I could see his arms moving, as if to see where I was, to give me a good seeing to, or perhaps he was reaching out for yet another bottle, this time to numb some actual pain. With my eyes still clouded over with tears, I waved to the unsuspecting collective, in the hope that Ma would keep to her word, not to speak the truth. I then ran straight back to Chad's to tell him the news. I silently stayed in Chad's outhouse, using pillows in place of drums to practice, but with every beat it was different. I could his face every time I hit something now, and the scenes of Bill Sykes beating Nancy, and Pops beating Ma, were ingrained in my memory for the rest of my life.

I thanked Chad, by giving him some malt liquor, that I stole from Pop's stash one time, an attempt to lower his stock of the bad thing. We also commented on the unlikability of Chad not getting caught, with his little Christmas shindig, our little laugh at such an impromptu tense time. Though, part of me wanted to stay, I needed to be out of his hair, so after some time had passed, and everyone was asleep, I snook out the back way, without Chad, but most importantly, his parents not noticing.

I had a goal to achieve, and that goal was still the try out.

It had been long strenuous week away from home, but I had to muster up the courage to return, so that we could "patch up" things, and of course, to talk about the elephant in the room: Pops!

An understandable slap across the face came my way, along with a stern talking too. After such a gruelling reunification, filled with transparent reality, Ma and I assimilated back into our domestic ways, but of course, at some point there would have to be the reunion, of both Pops and I. Part of me, was wanting, that he might not have even remembered it was me, who did this to him, as there was of course, both the booze and some trauma to the head, but of course, "when it comes to a game of chance, such as Poker, there is no guarantee of winning!" Is what my Uncle always said, and I began to ponder, about what he'd do, if he found out it was me that sent Pops to hospital.

It was two Wednesdays after the holidays, and tonight was the night, the drummer try outs. There was also a little rumour that Charlie's father, the great Lawrence Metcher, was going to be in attendance too, and on such an opportune evening he was. A tall shadowy figure was in the back, where I was that night when I snook in. He was sitting on such a simple seat, but with his aura, he made it a throne.

Now began the long painstaking process of both waiting for my turn, and listening to the other hopefuls. On the call sheet, I was second to last, but out of respect, and the fact I had no choice, I and the others had to sit through the whole evening, most likely arranged by Lawrence Metcher himself. The others before me, played to a good standard, but in my inbred passionate thinking, I thought that they lacked character, no nuances that were notable. Time passed like a slug swimming through treacle, and then before I knew it, my time had arrived, and my heart was pumping to the beat of Metallica's "Battery!"

"Lyemon, Sandy" said a stagehand, proudly handling their clipboard.

I walked on the stage, and the band gazed at me, the same way Country and Western extras in the saloon bar do in those films, saying with their eyes, "seems like we've got ourselves an outsider!" But I rested in the knowledge, that they had done this to every previous candidate. The only kind face on stage was Charlie Metcher's, and just like he did to the others, he shook my hand and gave me the quickest of briefings. The free improvision began, and with Charlie signalling my cue, I started hitting the beautiful Ludwig, with my 5A Krupas. My heartbeat regulated to a much calmer rhythm, despite, the tempo of the actual piece, I felt like I was back in my basement "the drum room", and unlike the others, I closed my eyes a bit, in order to feel the music, of course, I looked up now and then, to see where the guys and Charlie were going next, so I didn't look, or sound like a total all over the place prima donna. When I did look up, I saw two things, that spurred my playing on even more. The shadow in the back, Lawrence Metcher, stood up to get a better look at things, something that he didn't do, when the previous drummers performed. I thought if my playing warranted that sort of reaction, it made me feel somewhat special, but then of course there was the other thing that occurred. Another shadow at the back, that entered through the other door, was a shape oh so familiar, it was Ma. She must have seen the ad in the newspaper, and put two and two together, and low and behold, she was there, seeing me play for the first time. I saw a glimmer of pride from her still bruised face, but the way in which her face was contorted, and the way in which she was trembling, the slither of pride for me, I imagined was outweighed by her concern for Pops, who was still in hospital after that gruesome night. Another thought crossed my mind, that her shakes may also be the gravest annoyance for me, as I had not told her about the try outs, and of course, the horrible deed that I had done. After four live long moment minutes, my test had been completed, and the crowd began applauding, loudly. I had arrived, and the way the band's countenances changed from gated to pleased, it underlined that fact. Charlie was grinning too, as was Ma, but of course, had a muted enthusiasm because of our situation, she was waving me over in urgency, I thought the worst, Pops had died, I'd killed him, and as a result, such an exciting evening would be extinguished by such barbaric realism.

"You did very well honey, look at all your friends! Smiling, but why the hell didn't you tell me!?" Ma shrieked with a scolding, but understandable tone.

"Yeah, erm..thanks Ma, but of course, I didn't tell you, because I forgot, with everything that has happened and all." I retorted with a shaky cadence.

"About that honey, I have some news!" Ma said with a wobble in her throat.

As I said, I was fearing the worst, but she took me aside, and then came the truth.

"Your father, he's-"

"Dead, oh fuck, oh fuck!" I sobbed, interrupting Ma, but after a shake and another customary slap across my face…

"Let me finish! No sweetie, the news is that, over the years, your father has developed chronic cirrhosis, he had the chance to cut down, but didn't, so" Ma paused, beginning to weep.

"So, he's dying, he's dying because of the drink, but of course, what you did, didn't help, but the wounds of the beatings are minnows compared to the liver damage." Ma continued, trying her best to be calm.

Ma also stated that there was no need for the cops to get involved, as the bruising on him, looked identical; to the same sort of self-harm scars that an addict would possess, so the typical leaflets were handed out to Ma at hospital. Despite the concept of self-help and prospective bereavement, Pops was still in a critical condition, thus, the medical professionals that were working on him, were doing their best to keep him alive, and to provide some sort of quality of life, but with what Ma was saying, and the grimness of the situation, Pops choice to love the bottle, was proving to be too great a mistake. It seemed that his life, was already spent.

After Ma saying such a thing, I was still sickened at what I had done, and my concern for Pops was never more strong, but with this news, a little part of me screamed "I'm Scott free!" Though, of course, there were still plenty of things to repair, and although it was proving to be futile, I still carried the hope, that one of those things was Pops.

There was some more congratulating going on about my performance, so much so the last kid to try out decided to "up sticks" and leave, winded, wounded, not even playing one single note. My intension was of course, to impress, to win, but it was to never to dent another drummers reputation. I never got to see, listen to, or even get to know who that last person was, but I hope that they doing much better than me right now.

Amidst all this raucous, Ma and I joined the congregation, and then…

"Impressive young man!" A boom came from behind.

It was Lawrence Metcher, oh my god, Lawrence Metcher was talking to me.

"Well sourced Charlie, a mix between Buddy Rich and Stewart Copeland, very interesting indeed!" Lawrence said with his accustomed presence.

"Thanks Dad, I was thinking of-" Charlie said, but of course to his expectant unsurprise, was cut off.

"You're welcome, and I know exactly what you were going to say. You was going to say, I'll keep him, train him, so he can work Moore's Bar, in a couple of years. No, no, no, son, I'll take him off you!" Lawrence blurted, as if I was up for sale, like a car in a showroom, which of course, I was, and I didn't have either the concentration or the hearted self-dignity to interject, as I was simply too blown away at such a statement.

Though somewhat deflated at his father's comment, of which, reinserted my concerns over Pops, Charlie yielded, and with a hopeful heart, congratulated me again.

"Say-" Lawrence said to me, forgetting my name.

"It's Sandy, Mr Metcher" I enthusiastically responded.

"You may have passed my son's try out, but you haven't passed mine, just yet. I'm looking for a new stickman, and in two weeks at The Ruffles-"

"THE RUFFLES!" I screamed, knowing that oh so familiar and legendary place.

"Yes, The Ruffles Club. I envisage a run through of the piece "Towbar!" Lawrence continued, with a serious face.

I was gobsmacked again, as Towbar was one of the greatest jazz preludes of all time, to arguably the greatest jazz piece for drums of all time, Trailer.

Ma's face lit up, as she was seeing dollar bills, as was mine, but to add to my grave concerning guilt, some nervousness added to the mix, as things were getting real. My beloved pastime could actually lead to a real job.

"Well?" Lawrence asked.

After the shortest of pauses, and after the quickest of looks to Ma, with an undeniable voice…

"Hell yeah! Mr Metcher!" I replied, still not actually believing what was going on.

"Good, and I must make this clear Sandy, don't interrupt me ever again!" Lawrence said, in a menacing tone, which I naively took it, as a somewhat introductory joke.

Ma's pride increased, and both of us smiled, but of course, such great sadness and reality was still only one phone call away from the hospital. I really did cling onto the hope of Pops survival, like Sylvester Stallone did to that cliff in that movie, but still, I had an underlying gripe with what he did to Ma, thus, my anger, and my vicious tendencies still lingered, but with such an opportunity that had come way, I thought it would ease the stressfulness of the matter.

Just out of ear shot of his father, Charlie said to me be careful with my Dad. I thought nothing of it, but with what was to come, I should have paid by far more attention.

I relentlessly practiced both my rudiments and Towbar, for the next two weeks, whilst Ma was in and out of hospital visits like a turtle's head. Though in order to both maintain a sense of redemption, and to try my hardest to earn my place, I also looked at Trailer too, despite not particularly being told to, because, like I said, I wanted, no needed, to show everyone, the world, that I was the real deal, and of course, I wanted to make Ma proud, and eventually Pops, if there was ever to be any sort of reconciliation between us. Chad came round one night to see how I was, and how the situation was, I told him everything, and he was incredibly sympathetic, but also still shocked of what I did, but he was also congratulatory on my opportunity with the Metcher band. I gave him another purloined bottle from Pops stash, and he received it with a laddish smile. Such a good friend he was, and I hope that he still is, as to find someone like that, in such a fucked up world, is very rare indeed. That very sentiment alone told me, that great treasure is not found in chests, but some of it can be found on the street, and with the future beckoning, some would most definitely be found behind a drum kit.

A week had past, and it came to the first rehearsal with the Metcher band at The Ruffles Club, and boy, the essence of the place. The smells of the leather seats, it just conjured up my imagination of who might have sat in them. As you would have thought, pictures of every legend lined the walls, with Lawrence in a few of them of course. Even the green rooms, I thought were awesome, again, I imagined who might have been in them. However, I suppose that was my first experience in being in one, andcome to think about it now, I do remember the fusty smell of decayed cigars, yesterday's whiskey, sweat, and feint ablutions emanating from them, which made me realise, even legends had to shit, which disappointment my young spirit a little, but of course, didn't dampen my enthusiasm to play.

Quite like the try outs, there was a clear divide between me and the ensemble, when it came to meeting them, but a few were kind enough to say hi, but after a short hows you do? All became quiet in the Metcher band, as if they were recalling a well-remembered ritual. His, Lawrence's, footsteps, spoke like a command, an order, that he didn't even have to mouth, as his gait was to the rhythm of a march, more a soldier than a maestro, and at that little moment, I vaguely remembered the haunting phrase Charlie had said to me – be careful with my Dad.

"Right everyone, thank you for your kind attention!" Lawrence began with an authoritative tone.

"As you know, we have a new stickman on the stool, his name is Sandy, and he's very lucky to be here, as are you all!" He continued with a tone that was relatively alien to me, compared to when I first met him. Again, I would have took this as a bit of banter, but all was clear that this was seriously taken. Thus, this new tone of voice, much like the others in the band had acclimatised to over the years, I myself, would have to get used to. I felt a little uncomfortable, but I knew that if this was to lead to greater things, not everything would be a bed of roses.

After the most professional sounding tune up, I had ever heard, and after a rundown of what we were going to run through, the rehearsal got under way, starting with a couple of warm up free improvisation bits, in order for me and the band, to musically get to know each other.

Everything was going great, and then Towbar came. That was when the turbulent relationship began with Lawrence Metcher. It was after the middle eight, and I was doing what I thought, no knew, was correct to the part, but it was clear, that this maestro, was more like an anally retentive General, and when it came to my nuances, regards to my interpretation of Towbar, he clearly was not a fan. Lawrence stopped the band, and then…

"Erm…. What the hell do you think you're doing!?" Lawrence scowled.

At first, I thought he was talking to someone else, but when I saw his piercing eyes aiming at me, it was clear, it was me that he was talking to.

"What seems to be the problem Mr Metcher?" I asked with a stern surprising tone, of which there was an astounded look on both the band's and Lawrence's face.

"Like the tone of your voice young man, you are by far, too bold in your playing!" Lawrence replied, as if I had turned my back on his "godliness".

Though, I was lucky to be there, I felt like I was being personally attacked, singled out, I knew that I was playing all the right amount of notes, on the right drums, and on the right cymbals, so I mustered up some courage to defend myself for the first time, against someone who wasn't family.

"What are you talking about sir! I'm playing it, like the recording. I'm sure what my ears heard then, is what I played just now!" I emphasised.

The band were even more shocked, as if this level of defiance hadn't happened before, and as such, Lawrence came to his decision.

"Everyone, please leave! Leave me and the little rockstar for a moment. Actually all of you go just home for the night!" Lawrence said, trying to maintain his composure.

After everyone had left, Lawrence started with his round of seething verbosity.

"YOUR EARS! YOUR EARS! I'm the ears of this collective, and if I say, that there's something wrong, then there's something wrong!" He continued to bellow.

In such a heated moment, a little thought in me said, "hit him", but I couldn't, the rest of my life depended on this shot. So, after an apology, of the likes, I had never submitted before, Lawrence and I both relistened to the track, whilst reading the chart, though in him, I could still see the rumblings of a beast, that I had awoken.

As the pros always say, time is money, and the clock showed that the time was up for the rehearsal, but when Lawrence saw me looking at the clock, he had other ideas.

"If you think that you're going home now, you've got another thing coming! After you're insolence tonight, you're going to play this, like a RockSchool textbook boy!" Lawrence hissed, beginning my physical torment, and adding to my already tempestuous mental state, in order to perfect the art of copying. Thus, in both his image and sound, he could witness the drum part, for what he thought it was supposed to be, "plainly delivered".

The hours passed, and my hands bled, and on the twenty-first repeat of me playing Towbar, Lawrence was sadistically sated.

"See, that's how it supposed to be played! Bravo at last!" Lawrence said with a cuntish wry smile, as a waterfall of sweat cascaded down my face.

"I'm rescheduling another rehearsal for tonight, be there, or be no-one!" He continued, as the early morning sun shined through the club windows.

I limped back home, grabbing my stick bag tightly, as if I was foolishly saying, "you're the only thing I have!" Instead of going to bed, my autopilot took me down to the drum room, where instead of looking at Towbar, I looked at Trailer, as for me, like a gridlock highway intersection, I had seen, or in this case heard, by far too many "Towbars" for one night.

I went to the rescheduled rehearsal, and the band looked at me with both concern to my rundown fatigued state, but also envy, as it would seem, I was the only one to have stood up to Lawrence, but in their wildest dreams, they wished that they had done it first. This time there was no isolation, we performed a good run, but Lawrence still had it in for me. Thus, after the rehearsal, he still drilled me for a couple of hours extra, to make sure that I was a good little doggie, and that every i was dotted, and every t was crossed, they way he liked it.

The Ruffles Club, a place, I thought to be jazz heaven, was fast becoming a circle of my personal hell, and someone who I thought was a hero, someone to look up to, was turning out to be the most immaculate of bastards, and not in the right way.

It was the Tuesday before the concert, and out of the blue, I received a call from Charlie, he was checking in on me, to see how everything was going. I told him about things being more of an ordeal, than being a pleasure, and he responded in a voice that bore no surprise whatsoever.

"I did warn you!" Charlie said, in a "I told you so" like fashion.

"I know you did, but, he's Lawrence Metcher! He's not supposed to be like that!" I said, trying to hold on to any piece of hope.

"Never meet your heroes, hah? You should try having him as a father, and the things that I have found out over the years, hmm. It makes me kinda sick!" Charlie stated, in an unusual sad tone.

"Though I have strugglingly come to terms with it, I still resent him for what he did to them!" Charlie continued, with me being more perplexed as ever.

"Them?" I enquired with static attentiveness, as Charlie began such a sad story.

"He always put jazz first, it was never us, or Ma, it was always jazz! I thought I could escape it, all together, but I decided to become a better him, instead of using his relentless brutal approach, I wanted to reinsert the community in the style, hence my little collective, of which I love like a family. But his dark booming shadow, stole from us, to fund his habit, jazz! He stole my sister's jewellery to get a better trumpet, and pawned Ma's car, to get a honky tonk!" Charlie both snarled and sobbed, with me dumfounded at such a revelation.

"I bet he's not even been honest with you, due to your challenges." Charlie said, with me being confused.

"Yeah, that's right, the Towbar concert. When he said to you it's happening in two weeks, it's actually happening next month, at Carnegie Hall, New York. He only says such things to rile you up, so he can get his kicks, and thus, always remaining in control. I'm so sorry for what he's put you through, but when you took away some of his thunder that night, this is how he always reacts. I remember one shady thing he said to me once, he said "I'm not a fascist, I just have an ardent need for things to work, and when they don't, I break them!" Charlie sustained, with even more disbelief on my face.

"Lawrence Metcher, a legend built on both hurt and lies" Charlie concluded, as if reading the prospective epitaph of his own father's grave, of which was oh so close to home for me.

Upon hearing his account, it reminded me of my turbulent family ties, hence, I could relate to some of his pain.

"You're sorry, I'm sorry, for you!" I said, moving in closer to embrace him.

I told him the reasons why I picked up the sticks, and why it was important for me to continue with the beat, but in telling him of my acquired aggressive tendencies, he again gave me a friendly word of warning, but not against his father, but for life in general.

Charlie Metcher eh!? A fine son, to a demon father. He didn't deserve to live in such a murky shadow, and with my newfound focussed tenacity, and the newly acquired knowledge, I also wanted to show that such a broken parasol was not to dampen my spirit to shine on stage, in my own way. Thus, when I was to play, I decided that I was going to dedicate my performance not only to Ma and Pops, but also to Charlie Metcher as well.

After the next rehearsal, all was cleared up in terms of the logistics of the concert, and Charlie was right, it was the first week of February, and it was at the prestigious Carnegie Hall in New York. At first, I thought oh fuck, I've got no car, but my fellow rhythm section buddy, the bassist of the band, Guy, said that he had wheels, so all was cool. He also said that their company truck, was going to be taking the bigger things in transit, including a beautiful four piece Tama Club Jam kit, that I was going to be playing. I also remembered…

"Oh shit, Ma, Ma, she can't drive, so, I was wondering-"

Before I could even finished my urgent request-

"Sure! And I think you're doing great by the way. Though you know Metcher, in terms of his moods, anything could happen on the day!" Guy replied, with a somewhat chilling and prophetic tone.

Finally the day had come. After the most rigorous and most unfair gruelling agony, me and my tapped up hands, and my rented suit, were ready to roll.

I walked into Carnegie Hall, and my breath was taken away. Far were the days I thought The Ruffles was the be all, and end all, this place was something else, everyone had been here, everyone, not only jazz, everyone! In a live long gaze, I said to myself, "this is truly a place, that I could call heaven!" Or a least a slice of something like it, to enjoy, before the storm that was to come.

Setup was going ahead, and I looked over at Lawrence, the only way I could, after the recent unravelment about him. It's as if I had a weapon now, to use against him. I had something, I knew, but he didn't know that I knew. Thus, I thought this was another case, of his full control being up for grabs. But, in order to stay on task, I returned to the band's dressing room, to go over Towbar again, and in secret, have a glaze over Trailer, of which, I was sure I had down to a tee. After an hour or so, it was time for my first ever professional sound check. No flashy business, it was just to get the levels, but there was one fill I did around the kit to finalize the overall kit level, that pleasantly surprised some of the theatre staff. They must have thought that I was still in school, due to me being, a young looking sixteen. Of course, such rhymical athleticism didn't rock Lawrence's cradle.

Sound check was done, and with my newfound confidence, I went up to Lawrence and said…

"Mr Metcher, no, Lawrence. Not only am I dedicating my performance to my Ma and Pops, but I'm also dedicating it to your son Charlie, as I feel that he deserves it!" I said with a proud tone.

With such a dedication, he must have now known, that I had spoken with Charlie, that I now knew the true about him, hence, again, he responded like a fiery child having it's sweeties taken away from them. I then went outside for some air, and to warm up, and he, with all his mindful poisons, planned his revenge.

My heart was racing, like it was for Charlie's try outs, and then, the call to head to the stage, was heard over the little Tannoy speaker, it was time for our band to shine, and for my beat to be heard. I caught a glimpse of Ma in the stalls, and she wore such a bright smile. She looked the most beautiful, than I have ever seen her. It was a sight to behold, given such dire previous circumstances.

All of us sat in our positions, mine behind the Tama Club Jam, with Lawrence wearing yet again, another cuntish wry smile, a smile, that would be the prelude to the answer that followed immediately.

"WAIT! WHAT!" I instantly thought! This wasn't Towbar, it was Oil Change, another classic piece, but something that I didn't prepare for. After my initial stumbles, I looked up and saw his face, and all was clear. The fill at the sound check, and the fact that I was dedicating my performance to his son, and the fact that I had learned the truth, Lawrence, in his overbearing method, had forced the band to switch charts. I manage to recover the main pulse, and threw in some improvised bits, I looked over at Guy, with him wearing a sorry face, as if he was saying, "what could I do!" That's when I remembered what he said about Lawrence's "moods" and "anything happening on the day!"

I blagged the finish, and there was a muted applause, much to Lawrence's satisfaction.

After a pregnant pause, and with my face as red as a beetroot with embarrassment, that was when, I answered such a childish betrayal, and thus delivered such a surprise for Lawrence, and all in attendance.

I played the famous forty, minus one beat fill, the start to Trailer. I nailed it. After a quick glare of utter shock from all the guys in the band, they immediately started to play the melodies, with relish. I now looked up Lawrence, and his face now resembled that of a frightened old man, who had been mugged on the street, and not the face of a proud hero, in control of his faculties. My transitions were flawless, and the band had never sounded tighter, Ma cheered bless her, to bring some good old fashioned New Jersey hype, and the otherwise distinguished crowd, began to become a little rowdier, much to the great displeasure of Lawrence. As the piece progressed, Lawrence couldn't keep his eyes off me, glaring at me with concentrated malice, but I refused to stop, and the jazzy goodness was flowing, and the crowd were on their feet, in such a catatonic state. I also held onto the hope, that Lawrence was staring at me, because he finally was impressed, with what I was doing for once, coming to the shocking conclusion, that he could be wrong, and someone else could be so right. It was coming to the coda, and my sticks broke, on the penultimate flourish, but at the very end, when the piece to come round full circle, I played the reprise of the forty, minus one beat fill, until those oh so familiar choke stab ending.

After I choked the crash cymbal, then came the thunderous applause, and a standing ovation from the band.

"YOU DID IT MAN!" Guy said, punching the air, with a tear rolling down his face.

I then saw Ma amidst the moving forest, she radiated all the pride a mother could. I then started to cry, and instead of a brutal waterfall of sweat, it was a pour out of all emotion. I pointed my broken 5A Krupas in the air, to hold them aloft, like some sort of trophy, but then such celebration was rudely interrupted, when Lawrence got me by the scruff of the neck, and took me in the alley way, by the stage door.

"YOU IRRATATING LITTLE FUCKER!" Lawrence yelled, with all his might, still gripping my collar.

"Even if you did play a good Trailer, you're not worth the shit on my shoe, you little bitch! How dare you challenge "Maestro Metcher!" How dare you decide to lead!" He bleated again, this time trying to hit me.

After dodging out the way, he continued with his speech, as if he was justifying his villainies, like a Hollywood bad guy.

"You're not the only one, who can do his homework boy! I know how you're Ma gets her bruises, but most importantly, I know why you're Daddy isn't here cheering you on! You are nothing but a mistake, a mistake, that I thought I could right, but no! You are in need of a good beating now! But before I tell you this, you advert of abortion, I am not a fascist, I just have an ardent need for things to work, and when they don't, I BREAK THEM!" He loudly and filthily concluded, echoing the words he had previously said to Charlie in the past.

We tussled for a good twenty minutes, and the way in which the affray was going, he was the offensive, and I was trying so hard to be the parry master, but after he landed a decent uppercut to me, I realised that I had to defend myself, one last time. I tried so many times to remain defensive, so I could wipe away the red mist that was circulating around my face, but it all became too much. I couldn't hold back any longer, not only was I doing it for me, but I was doing it for my fellow band members, and also for Charlie, and any other people he had hurt along the way, to get to the top. His relentless control and lies were to come to an end, thus, by my hand, this was his final curtain call. As his back was turned, I got out my broken 5As, the tools of my success, of which, now became weapons of the utmost selfish release, and to the rhythm of the fill back into the main theme of Trailer, I did my second most heinous act. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack! Again thirty-nine hits, and afterwards, all I could do was roar to the sky in an outpouring of a myriad of emotions, the same way I felt, on that night, when I did my first horrible deed, to my own Pops.

I could have loved Lawrence like a father, but by his conduct, he made my decision for me, and with such an act, we come round full circle, like Trailer, the blood ran down the drain, in the back alley, leading to the stage door of Carnegie Hall.

After many hours of wailing, the inevitable happened. Such a noisy scene, that I was unfolding, attracted the attention of sirens, and before I knew it, or even started to think to flee, I was surrounded by cops and medics.

Now with a boggy gory face, I sat in the backseat of an NYPD cop car, with my very able hands now cuffed, powerless to raise a stick, so I could not make a beat. Looks like I might be wearing that orange jumpsuit after all.

I was dreading the idea of prison, but I also thought if there's likeminded folks like me in the pod, then like Johnny Cash, we'll play as well as serve. But all joking aside, my thoughts now congealed together into a rigid guilt, and in order to make an attempt to ready myself for the worst, I tried my hardest to mentally prepare for the consequences.

Whilst in court, I had a sobering thought. I had always beaten things, people, in order to truly get my base words across. Thus, in a glimmer of realisation, I finally understood both Pops and Lawrence. Life is tough, so you have to fight, and when it comes to "keeping in touch" a relatable conversation will always be had. Though the law doesn't, and will not ever see it that way.

To confirm to you friend, of where I am, the verdict was sound. Though Ma had promise to forgive, it proved too impossible to protect. As things as grave as this, even with my anger issues, have to be dealt with accordingly.

Instead of the resplendent sound of jazz, all I hear now are the Sing Sing bells, bells I can't get rid of, but sometimes the warden puts on his radio. I hope that Ma got my last letter, I know I only saw her three months ago, but it feels so much longer. By the way, Ma got that phone call in the end, Pops is still alive, but he's on a ventilator, I suppose euthanasia was never for him, and perhaps he wanted to remain alive, to see if he could have another glass of something "cheerful", that would fuel his rage some more, so he could continue being the outdated "Victorian husband!" But just like many choices in this story, that would be dangerously stupid.

Oh wait, I hear the radio crackling now… and would you fucking believe it, it's playing my song!

THE END