The Metal-man and The Chicken-girl Part 3

(This is part three of a short story. It is written as a script in case I talk someone into making this into a TV special.)

To catch up click here or here…and now…on with the show:

By SJ Otto

I washed the powder down with Bubble-fest. The powder had very little taste. It was kind of bland.

The DJ began playing music by the Chop Hoppers. The song was called “Gag Me- Mag Me.” The music thumped hard like some kind of disco using deep bass licks. I could just about hear the lyrics.)

SONG:

Just gag me – mag me,

I wanna gag mag,

I wanna mag mag,

I want to puke him up just like a house haunter

So I can puke up a lousy 1 percenter[1]

I wanna grow up to be a fly,

Sail through the open sky,

Just gag me – mag me,

I wanna gag mag,

I wanna mag mag,

Blood flows from my humble schtyck,

My brain slogs down on a gothic shit,

I want to wear the clothes of a 1 percenter,

Gag, mag and chill,

After I kill,

After I kill me a 1 percenter.

A few minutes later I heard another song and it was also about killing the1 percenters. A few more songs and there was another about killing a 1 percenter. A few minutes later another one.

HARLEY: Is there some kind of a theme to this music—wanting to kill a 1 percenter?

HILDA: Yeah. It is a common dream. Why not? The 1 percenters came up with the idea to eat us.

HARLEY: But it wasn’t just the rich who wanted to eat people. The majority of society voted to do that.

HILDA: But it was the rich, the 1 percenters who came up with the idea first.

HARLEY: It seems to me like wealthy people have done a lot for society. Besides, wouldn’t you like to be rich someday?

HILDA: Me rich? That’s impossible. Besides, even metal people rarely become 1 percenters. You’ve been brain washed. The 1 percenters want you to believe you can be rich. That way you support all their rights.

HARLEY: Well that just makes sense.

HILDA: No. Not really. Most metal people never get rich and all the privileges that 1 percenters enjoy go only to them. Most metal people will never get to enjoy the spoils of life—other than the right to eat meat—which is people like me.   

HARLEY: Enough politics, let’s dance.

Finally we found something we had in common. Hilda was a good dancer. She really let herself go and we both drifted into the music. The music was actually pretty good, somewhat like goth or punk rock in the late 20^th century. Lasers crossed the dancefloor and a fog machine spewed colored smoke across the room.

Then I saw something amusing. There was a couple wearing Pol Pot chic.[2] It was the classic solid black with red and white checkered ties and the black Mao hats.

HARLEY: Wow! I didn’t know that chickens could be Pol Potists.

HILDA: Yes. Chickens like any culture of rebellion.

HARLEY: I kind of like them.

HILDA: For someone who made fun of my Marxist books I’m surprised you like them.

HARLEY: I like their parties. They have cool clothes and they like really cool rock music.

HILDA: Did you realize Pol Pot was a Marxist most of his life?

HARLEY: No. Do you have one of his books?

HILDA: No. He didn’t write any books. He just helped write some documents and no one signed their name to them.

HARLEY: Maybe your books aren’t so useless after all.

Suddenly a young attractive slightly plump girl with rings painted around her eyes and streaks of purple in her black hair came up to the two of them.

RATCHET: Who is this boy?

HILDA: This is Harley.

RATCHET: Hi. I haven’t seen you around here before.

HARLEY: This is my first time at this club. I just moved to town.

RATCHET: My name is Ratchet. What do you do for a living?

HARLEY: I work at Flatco. I make sales.

RATCHET: Wow that is a strange job. I never knew anyone who did sales before.

HILDA: That’s what I like about him. He’s strange.

RATCHET: What kind of music do you like?

HARLEY: I like Jim Bimbo, the Orange Clockers and some oldies rock.

RATCHET: Then why are you here?

HARLEY: I wanted to try something new.

RATCHET: Well this will do it.

Soon another girl came by, a little taller and a red head.

PONNARY: Hello Upyr. (She was looking at Hilda).

HILDA: Hello Ponnary.

HARLEY: They call you Upyr?

HILDA: That’s my clubbing name.

HARLEY: Wow! You all drink Bubble-fest.

RATCHET: It’s the least gaggy of their stupid drinks. I like Whisky breathers when I can drink what I want.

HARLEY: You drink alcohol?

 (Hilda hits him in the arm.)

PONNARY: What are you a cop?

HARLEY: No. (He realizes he made a mistake as most chickens actually drink.) I’m just noticing things. I drink too. I like butter scotch beer.

RATCHET: Where do you get to drink a sissy drink like that?

HARLEY: Um! Uh…Joe the bartender gets it for me.

PONNARY: You have some weird friends. The only chickens I know who can buy that stuff work in bars.

HARLEY: He works in a bar.

HILDA: We were just about to dance is that OK with you gals if we go to the dance floor?

RATCHET and PONNARY: Sure.

As the music droned on, we went to the dance floor.

HILDA: You’re not doing so hot. You clearly have not been around chickens before.

HARLEY: I didn’t realize you all break the law. You all drink alcohol which is illegal.

HILDA: We don’t follow a lot of rules. Those rules are for those who eat us. We don’t really care if our meat is the best. We aren’t here in this world for that. Most of us feel our lives are a rip off anyway.

Also, chickens have crappy jobs. Remember that. And we can’t afford a new car as the one you drive so don’t tell my friends you even have a car. Also don’t tell them where you live. They will notice you don’t live around other chickens.

HARLEY: OK. I get it. I think I can handle this now. Give me another chance.

HILDA: OK. Let’s go.

HARLEY: Upyr! Where’d ya get a name like that?

HILDA: It just means vampire. It’s an ancient dialect and it sounds cool. I like it.

It was about this time that the drug I took started to kick in. I started to feel woozy and then something like an amphetamine rush came over me. The lights began to look brighter. The colors in things began to seem as if they were streaking in and out of where they were supposed to be. I was beginning to feel very paranoid.   

HILDA: I see you haven’t used R-25 before.

HARLEY: No.

HILDA: drink what’s left of my vodka.

She took it out of her black leather purse and I chugged it. By the time we got back to where we were standing, Hilda’s two friends had walked off and a couple was standing there. There was a tall husky guy with spiky blond hair and a short thin girl with red hair.

HILDA: Snake and Arf. How are you two doing?

ARF: Real good Upyr. (They were holding Bubble -fest). Who is your newest guy friend?

HILDA: This is….

HARLEY: Piranha. (I said, interrupting her before she could finish.)

HILDA: Right. Piranha.

After all, everyone else had a club name. Why shouldn’t I.

ARF: Is something wrong Piranha? You don’t look so good. Did you take a little too much R-25?

HILDA: I tried to warn him. He hasn’t taken any drugs for a long time. He was trying to quit. So tonight he took a dose and decided to go off the wagon again.

By now, I was starting to giggle and I had a hard time looking people in the eye. As the night went on I was really flying on the stuff.

SNAKE: We have a party later tonight as Bella’s house. You and your dude can come if you want.

HILDA: Normally I would make a night of it. But I think I’ll pass tonight. (She turned to me.) Why don’t we finish the night off at my house? We can get some more Vodka and hang out there.

HARLEY: I agree. (They began walking to the door.)

HILDA : I think you’ve had enough of chicken town for tonight.

HARLEY: But when we get to the liquor store I will pick up a pack of Ass-whole Stout.

So we headed to my car and my night in the chicken town came to an end. It was strange to be such an outsider. I was in a world I knew so little about. These people even had their own culture. But it was fun. They made the best of their short lives.

To Be Continued….

Daft Punk - On Da Dancefloor

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[1] A common reference to the other main class of people in this society and their common label…the 1 percenters.

[2] Pol Pot Chic is a subculture that draws inspiration from the ancient guerrilla leader of Cambodia. But it is made up more with style than politics. Pol Pot is now an iconic personality similar to that of Vlad Dracula. That is where Bram Stoker got the name for his vampire Dracula. Vlad Dracula was also known as the Prince of Wallachia (1431–1476/77), a member of the House of Drăculesti, also known, using his patroymic as Vlad Drăculea, Vlad Dracula or Vlad the  Impaler.