clatter when the cosmonaut’s blurry mouth moves—pictures beaming down faster than sound. Dimitri’s beard is a patch of overgrown weeds. Now his once lonely eyes just look empty. Embarrassed. Halfway through his speech, the delayed words reach American ears, totally out of sync like black market film dubbing.
“Please, America, we are at your mercy,” he wrestles with English. “You must eat Space Burger and play game to save us. We have not eaten in many days. We will die soon—” A thunderstorm of static crackling cuts him off.
“Di…Dimitri?” our beautifully tanned anchor asks. “Well, it appears we’ve lost feed with the space station again.” He pauses, reading a report on the desk. The newscaster rubs his face like aluminum tears are leaking from those steel eyes. “Folks, this is life or death here and only you can help. So far, two hundred and twelve thousand lucky numbers have been used to guide the Burger Suit back toward the space station. It will take a lot more of your help to get it home. Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is the only place to get those lucky numbers and save our starving Russians. And it’s the only way for you to become a thousandaire in the process. But that is not the issue, folks. Innocent people are dying up there. Only we can change it. Together, as a team.”
The graphic shows the suit and the space station inching closer, but still hundreds of miles apart in real life.
Our anchor stuffs a finger in his shirt collar and tugs a tie loose. “America, the fate of five cosmonauts is in your hands.” Hands fold like prayer. A salty glaze of sweat covers his forehead. “Please buy an extra Space Burger tonight.”
“Dude,” Napoleon says, mist and frost whipping past their cheeks. “Did you read the paper today?” Downtown’s old brick buildings are merely a squint in the skyline.
“Nope, why?” Deshler says. He inhales cool air through a sober head. Dean wishes the valet awning was better protection from the elements as the clock-stopping hum of boredom creeps in. It’s like sitting in the corner as a boy, in trouble with Mom again. Morning is always this slow, things never pick up until happy hour when all the executive autos need parked.
It has been five days since Dean’s touched a drop of alcohol. Five days since he woke up in that limo. It has also been five days since he’s shown up to work late. And at least as many since he’s wet himself. Dean’s banter with millionaires, which used to consist of grunts and nods, has improved to the point where a good stock market joke lands the former Cliff Drinker a twenty dollar tip. He’s only scratched and dented four cars. Less than one per day—easily a record.
“There’s a blurb about your band and a preview of tonight’s show.”
“No shit?” he says, with an Oh, golly kind of face. “Let’s have a look.” Dean is a little skeptical, knowing Napoleon’s track record of saying practically anything for attention.
“I forgot it at home.” Napoleon’s breath evolves into steam. “But, basically, it said Lothario is gaining some cult status in town. Something about being an unpredictable live act.”
A little sad, wanting to believe his parking partner, Dean says: “Get out of here.”
Yawning, Napoleon stretches short, soft arms. “It said something like you’re Iggy Pop with a bright orange mask and Ziploc baggies.”
This makes Deshler blush, since the four singers he’s always modeled himself after are:
Iggy Pop “Stooges era, of course, before he sucked.”
David Yow “From the Jesus Lizard, before they left Touch and Go and sucked.”
Nick Cave “But only when he was in the Birthday Party. He never really sucked, but you get the picture.”
Gibby Haynes “Strictly the Butthole Surfers’ eighties work.” Dean will never admit it, but he can’t stand their nineties stuff when the band sucked.
His heroes not only used their voices to
“Please, America, we are at your mercy,” he wrestles with English. “You must eat Space Burger and play game to save us. We have not eaten in many days. We will die soon—” A thunderstorm of static crackling cuts him off.
“Di…Dimitri?” our beautifully tanned anchor asks. “Well, it appears we’ve lost feed with the space station again.” He pauses, reading a report on the desk. The newscaster rubs his face like aluminum tears are leaking from those steel eyes. “Folks, this is life or death here and only you can help. So far, two hundred and twelve thousand lucky numbers have been used to guide the Burger Suit back toward the space station. It will take a lot more of your help to get it home. Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is the only place to get those lucky numbers and save our starving Russians. And it’s the only way for you to become a thousandaire in the process. But that is not the issue, folks. Innocent people are dying up there. Only we can change it. Together, as a team.”
The graphic shows the suit and the space station inching closer, but still hundreds of miles apart in real life.
Our anchor stuffs a finger in his shirt collar and tugs a tie loose. “America, the fate of five cosmonauts is in your hands.” Hands fold like prayer. A salty glaze of sweat covers his forehead. “Please buy an extra Space Burger tonight.”
“Dude,” Napoleon says, mist and frost whipping past their cheeks. “Did you read the paper today?” Downtown’s old brick buildings are merely a squint in the skyline.
“Nope, why?” Deshler says. He inhales cool air through a sober head. Dean wishes the valet awning was better protection from the elements as the clock-stopping hum of boredom creeps in. It’s like sitting in the corner as a boy, in trouble with Mom again. Morning is always this slow, things never pick up until happy hour when all the executive autos need parked.
It has been five days since Dean’s touched a drop of alcohol. Five days since he woke up in that limo. It has also been five days since he’s shown up to work late. And at least as many since he’s wet himself. Dean’s banter with millionaires, which used to consist of grunts and nods, has improved to the point where a good stock market joke lands the former Cliff Drinker a twenty dollar tip. He’s only scratched and dented four cars. Less than one per day—easily a record.
“There’s a blurb about your band and a preview of tonight’s show.”
“No shit?” he says, with an Oh, golly kind of face. “Let’s have a look.” Dean is a little skeptical, knowing Napoleon’s track record of saying practically anything for attention.
“I forgot it at home.” Napoleon’s breath evolves into steam. “But, basically, it said Lothario is gaining some cult status in town. Something about being an unpredictable live act.”
A little sad, wanting to believe his parking partner, Dean says: “Get out of here.”
Yawning, Napoleon stretches short, soft arms. “It said something like you’re Iggy Pop with a bright orange mask and Ziploc baggies.”
This makes Deshler blush, since the four singers he’s always modeled himself after are:
Iggy Pop “Stooges era, of course, before he sucked.”
David Yow “From the Jesus Lizard, before they left Touch and Go and sucked.”
Nick Cave “But only when he was in the Birthday Party. He never really sucked, but you get the picture.”
Gibby Haynes “Strictly the Butthole Surfers’ eighties work.” Dean will never admit it, but he can’t stand their nineties stuff when the band sucked.
His heroes not only used their voices to
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