Just then, the Hairy Bogmother appeared in a flash of fog and with deep stentorian tones commanded, "STEVE! Your task is to remasterbate The Beagles, with a "G"."
STEVE was gobsmacked, or was it bogsmacked. All these years he'd thought his ultimate porpoise in life was to remasterbate Beatles, but it was Beagles all along! How could his Golden Ears have failed him? How, he wondered, and how again? Gosh, and rfreebird, the Mastermind of the Beagles, was a tool on his very own forum! To think of it!
STEVE needed the Beagles master tapes, and fast. The Scully wouldn't wait. Already its metallic telepathic voice was bludgeoning his brain, softly but softly, with vague murmurings like those he sometimes heard when slowly but slowly emerging from a Vicodin haze. "Only you can curate the tapes," it said. "Only you can give them the Breath of Life(tm)".
Not that I think that is a good process, but in the eyes of that process if it had eyes.
A man on a flaming pile of shit appeared. "Tonmeister!" he commanded, "It is incumbent upon thee to obtain from Lord Lon Von Eaton the sacred master tape — upon which it is written on the box, 'DO NOT USE.'"
"Desiring and then acquiring an expensive watch is prima facie evidence you are a cunt." — Steve Albini
Lon Von Eaton was in a foul mood. His ugly wife had been nagging all day. He was about to reach a breaking point.
For years, his mental condition had been fairly stable but lately a steady decline had been setting in. This resulted in extreme mood swings and occasional bouts of violence. Usually his wife would be at the receiving end, although a few weeks earlier he had also given a former client a piece of his mind. Lon did not regret this. He knew why he had done it, and the person in question was an insufferable idiot.
Behind Chip an imposing phalanx of burly black-suited men in mirrored shades crowded the open doorway, their heads turreting slowly and nodding to earphone messages. As one they stepped aside to make a path and a skinny man who looked like a cheerful sunbaked frog walked through. Lon was dumbstruck. Paul McCartney was on his front porch.
"Hey, man…" and Macca extended his hand which held a large shiny black leather binder.
"Brought the goods", and Lon's eyes widened. He took the case and stood aside as the Beatle skipped in, twitching his head about like a caffeinated parrot. Chip followed, leaving the door open and signaled a thumbs up to the MIB.
Lon opened the binder. Inside 2 dozen miniature cassette tapes were perfectly arrayed in recessed slots.
"It's me latest, mate… me own phone messages put to music, lotsa guest musicians, some full orchestra stuff, just like ol' 5B George… all recorded since day one on me own answering machine -- vintage from the late 60's, man, be in the Tate someday doncha know?" He grinned and unleashed a fusillade of head twitches.
Lon stared at him. Up close he was so wizened he might be a tourist trap driftwood replica.
"This is me legacy, has everything I know, it's an autobio, an opus, man… Whatever I do after this it'll be downhill methinks…" and he briefly lowered his frazzled head like a deflated balloon, but quickly recovered and paced in a jittery circle, his legs skittering like a Gerry Anderson puppet.
"I had me a few working titles but son Jimmeh said to call it Do Not Use. Brilliant eh? He caught the spirit of it. Irony 'n' all. Kid's a brainiac, man… GOTTA GO!"
"T-Homo-Z -- Chip -- says… give 'em to a guy named STeVE…" He was suddenly pale and gasping. "Says I owe him after he was yanked off the Beatles catalogue… but I don't remember any fuckin' STeVE… Chip's my agent… he'll settle it… Cheers, mate."
He staggered towards the door and Chip gestured frantically to the MIB. Just before Macca crumpled the suits had him hoisted upright and carried him out, completely limp except for his maniacally twitching head, his brand-new Converse All Stars thumping softly down the steps.
Chip pulled a thick contract out of his jacket and handed it to Lon.
caresses the zeref chapters seductively* My huzbandu. + #shhh the only true ship is zerefrave #*cackles* #and stingyaushie #i ship it
Post by Flat Transfer on Dec 29, 2018 11:25:40 GMT
The Scully was bored. Ever since being unwrapped after 14 years, it still had not seen any action for months. The owner seemed more concerned with starring at it and giving it an occasional light pet while wearing a glove, uttering odd words such as "minty", "neat" & "nifty". The only positive it had gotten out of this was a new friendship with another device called the "Kensei Audio Transposer", which had more or less suffered the same fate as the Scully.
Look, Pal, they work great. They are for rich people though. If you've never heard them you can't have an opinion on the way they sound so yap up. -SH
You're not worshiping me per se, but what I STAND FOR: The best sounding music out there! -SH
The Scully felt sad as another drop of The Breath Of Life leaked out of its capacitors. It had had such great days in the past. The Buddy Holly Tapes. The little playback reels from MCA, all pulsating through The Scully's electronics, making the meter kick on its endstop. The Scully wondered whether its meter would ever kick again.