Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate by Robert Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

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    Out in the gravel lot, Kristina swung one leg over my vintage motorcycle, and pulled a helmet out of the motorcycle’s sidecar. A large brown dog took the helmet’s place. She revved the already running engine once, and sped off down the gravel highway.
    Momma Chiffon heard this, rolled herself around and noticed the kitchen was empty. She also noticed the fry vats were empty, and a flicker of movement drew her eyes to the ceiling just as the hose slipped back into the chimney hole. None of this made enough sense to her to inspire an immediate reaction, and as she stood there trying to decide what flavor of mad to become (her default emotion), the sound of barking dogs and surprised red-necks started echoing from outside. She ran to the back door, and hearing what sounded like massive outboard motors roaring from above her, she looked up in time to see a huge tail-fin slip out of view behind the roof’s overhang.
    Men were running from the diner to their rusted pick-ups, grabbing their requisite guns from their requisite rear window racks, while stubby pit bulls and Dobermans ran in circles barking at the sky.
    A few shots were fired, as the huge oval silhouette slid over the parking lot and headed down the road. Trucks and bikers filled the lot with dust as they sped out after it.
    Not too far down the road, Kristina and motorcycle screamed in angry acceleration, as Jean-Paul came up behind her on the still dangling rope ladder and attached a huge hook to the bike. Slowly, motorcycle, sidecar, girl, man, and the dog with ears flapping in the wind lifted from the dusty road and glided upward into the silent crimson night.

THE BEST GIMMICK EVER

 
    The next night was the concert. Dr. Calgori had, in addition to overseeing the repairs and modifications to the Ophelia, spent some time repairing an upgrading our instruments. Our modern electric guitars, and synthesizer’s were, in his humble opinion, abysmally ugly. The doctor took it upon himself to correct this lack of design, and the result made our salvaged twentieth century instruments look like something from Captain Nemo’s Nautilus.
    That night as we packed up our instruments, Lilith had come to us with a “new song” she had “written”. But far from being a finished song and arrangement, this was merely the start of some sophomoric poetry. It was about a beautiful dancing girl, so beautiful the whole world loved her. I was supposed to finish this song for her, and then sing it while gazing at her as she danced before our audience.
    “We do not have time to learn a new song! We’ve only got three hours until the show!” Kristina said coldly, as the rest of our make-shift ensemble continued to pack, avoiding eye contact with Lilith.
    We arrived at the dingy roadside club at night. We doused all the lights onboard, Daniel dropped down on a huge mooring hook, and attached the airship to an abandoned water tower a few dozen yards out of the reach of the light. After that, we lowered our gear and ourselves into the parking lot, just outside the ring of light created by the club. As long as we left before dawn, no one would know we hadn’t just arrived in one of the many cars parked here.
    The “festival” we were playing was called the Utah Dark Arts Festival. It was a once-a-year music event for Goths, and we were the third of four bands to play that night. Kristina, myself, Jean-Paul, Tanner, and Lilith entered in our strange Victorian attire, dragging our bizarrely modified equipment.
    We told the stage manager we were the band Abney Park, and we were directed to the “dressing room”, which in this case meant there were a bunch of mirrors propped up against beer kegs in the basement.
    We stood out. The room was filled with tall shadowy musician-types; pale faced, in black eyeliner, black vinyl pants, turtle necks, mohawks, and massive black boots. In contrast we were comprised of: one kilted and top hatted Tanner, Jean-Paul in his silk genie