The place: Baltimore, Maryland, USA. The date: Saturday, October 31st, 2009, also known as All Hallow's Eve. Or more coloquially... Halloween. And perpetually stuggling rock n' roll band Diefenbaker were celebrating it as they do every year: by locking themselves in their rowhouse, turning off all the lights, and hoping that no costumed little swine flu carriers come begging at their door. But there did come a knock at their door that night, and it set in motion a series of events that couldn't have been predicted by Nostradamus if he had ten thousand magic 8-balls at his disposal. Or something.
They ignored the first knock, but the second one came louder, followed by a third louder still, this time accompanied by an angry shout.
"Chicago P.D! You hippies better open this door before I break it down!" the thickly-Brooklyn accented voice bellowed before stereotypically adding, "Capice?"
Band Diefenbaker crept to the front window and peered through the crack in the drapes, careful not to disturb them and give the game away. On their porch they observed two figures silhouetted in the moonlight, both garrishly dressed, arguing with each other in voices too quiet to be heard. The taller one wore a large, round-brimmed hat and a red uniform of some sort. He appeared to be attempting to calm the shorter man, who was balding and wearing matching jacket and pants that looked like Gianni Versace designed them using his own vomit, Jackson Pollock-style. An unfamiliar large, green, American-made 1970's automobile could be seen parked on the dark street behind them with some kind of large white animal watching them from the car.
"Good Evening," the second man's voice intoned at the closed door, "If the members of struggling Baltimore rock n' roll band Diefenbaker would kindly come to the door we'd be much appreciative. You see, we've been sent here by your record label."
Diefenbaker's members looked at each other wide-eyed, and silently shook their heads "no" in agreement. Nothing good had ever come of contact with their label. The last time they'd heard from them, it was to inform them that they were dramatically cutting back on the hard-drug and exotic animals budget for the band's post-show parties.
"You know what, Fraser, I know how to handle these sensitive creative types," the first man said, "You gotta cut through all the crap in their heads, all the small-but- prestigious liberal arts college bullshit and Patty Smyth lyrics floating around in there and get their attention."
"I believe you mean Patti Smith, Ray," the second man said.
"Smyth, Smith, who gives a fuck? It's all crap rock poetry," the first man said, before a hail of gunfire sent band Diefenbaker diving to the back of their living room, drowning out any further witty banter.
Cowering behind their couch, the members of Diefenbaker peered out to see their newly-perforated front door kicked open, as the first man, armed, entered the room sideways, police-procedural-show style. The room secured to his satisfaction, he proceeded to find and flick on the light switch after a profane tirade that included speculation as to deviant sexual acts that said light switch's mother may have participated in in the past. Upon seeing the invaders illuminated for the first time, the members of Diefenbaker again exchanged a look, this time one of vague recognition.
"Alright, party's over, Joy Division! Get your hands where I can see 'em," the overly-Italian man shouted, advancing toward the couch and leveling his firearm at it, "Get your asses on the couch, or having a small but devoted following won't be the only thing you'll have in common with Elliott Smith."
"Uh, Ray," the red-suited man said calmly, removing his hat as he entered the house, "I'm fairly certain that Elliot Smith died of stab wounds, not gunshot wounds... inflicted by his own hand, as I recall."
"Stab wounds, gunshot wounds, drowned in his own tears, who gives a crap! Work with me here, Benny!"
"Terribly sorry, Ray," the red-suited man said before turning his attention towards the members of Diefenbaker, now seated, hands above heads, on the couch. "Right then. Now, first I'd like to make it clear that, despite the impression this uniform might give, I am not here this evening as a representative of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. In truth, I'm not even authorized to act in any official investigative capacity in this jurisdiction. You see, I first came to this country in pursuit of my father's killer..."
Fortunately, at this point the mountie was interrupted by a waved hand from the band's lead singer.
"Uh, yes. You have a question?"
"You're somebody famous, aren't you?" she asked, "I swear I've seen you on TV or something. Oh, wait wait! You were on that Eastwick show, weren't you? Hey, is that piece of crap even still on anymore?"
"Well, no," the mountie hesitated, "I believe you have me confused with someone..."
"And you too," Diefenbaker's guitarist chimed in, gesturing toward the diminutive gun-weilding man, "I swear I've seen you on TV somewhere too. Like... on a cop show. I don't remember you cursing as much, though."
"Yeah," the cop replied, "Well we ain't on CBS anymore, longhair, so go fuck yourself."
"At any rate," the mountie said, "We're here tonight as representatives of your record label, Adam and Steve Records. It seems they've given you a rather large cash advance in anticipation of the recording of your next album, which they, and I think reasonably, expect to be the highest selling recording in the history of all of recorded music upon it's release and to single-handedly save the record industry."
The members of Diefenbaker knowingly nodded their heads and exchanged looks indicating that this statement made perfect sense and was the most evidently true thing that they had ever heard in their entire lives.
"Yeah, but the problem is you lazy fuckfaces haven't sent the label so much as a recording of you taking a fucking shit near a guitar since they signed you," the cop said, then added, "Fuck."
"Now, the label is planning on ressurecting Joe Strummer and having him do a one-off collaboration with Bruce Springsteen, backed by Huey Lewis' former backing band the News and having Butch Walker produce the whole thing," the mountie intoned authoritatively, "And they need something as earth-destroyingly awesome as that's going to be to release as the other side of the split 7-inch single."
The members of rock n' roll band Diefenbaker exchanged an "uh-oh" look.
"Well surely," big red said, "You must have written at least one song."
"No," the guitarist said sheepishly, puppy-dog eyes and all, "Ever since Michael Jackson's Neverland Valley Ranch went on the market I've been engaged in intense negotiations to purchase the entire contents of the secret basement room and have them shipped to Chester, Pennsylvania, where I plan to recreate it precisely and open it to the public as a museum."
"And supervising the construction of the first Del Taco francise on the Moon took up a lot of time, too," said the lead singer, "It just recently opened. It hasn't turned a profit yet, but we anticipate a earnings in the tens of millions of dollars by late next quarter. This is admittedly based on nothing, though."
The cop clenched his teeth and rubbed his brow with the butt of his gun. "Great! Fantastic! So I guess that means we're not getting that advance back, either. Whatta we do now, huh? We can't go back to Adam and Steve Records empty handed! You know what those people are like! They're monsters, Fraser, monsters! You know what? Stand up." The cop cocked his pistol dramatically, then pointed it back at endangered Baltimore band Diefenbaker as they rose from the couch. "Turn around. Let's shoot 'em in the back and say they ran."
"Ray," the mountie said scoldingly, "I hardly think that's neccessary." He reached into the inner lining of his hat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "I... have a song."
"Whew, thanks for saving us from murder, sir," the guitarist said, taking the offered paper from the mountie's hand. "One more thing, though... is that your wolf?" he asked, pointing at the large white animal that had entered through the ruined front door unnoticed at some point, "I'm only asking because he just ate both of our cats and I'm not fucking cleaning that up."
Band Diefenbaker were never heard from again. All that was found in their home recording studio by Baltimore City Police several weeks later was a partially empty absinthe bottle, a 52-hour, 11-DVD box set of '90's buddy cop show Due South, and this recording on a 4-track cassette tape...
RIDE FOREVER
