Sir Robert: “This is the Year of My Discontent!”
By Mike Stevens
A Sir Robert Tale
Black shadows flashed before the eyes of Sir Robert Timkins. Nothing was going right; his idea to cross opera with death metal had gone from a high-flying jet, to an albatross with deformed wings, plummeting down to be smashed to bits on the rocks of reality! He tried to get out of bed, but why?
The ringing of the phone shattered the cone of silence he had over his head; in reality, it was just his blankets; and a bony arm that may or may not have been attached to his shoulder, snaked it’s way up to the phone. “Yeah?” he barked into the receiver.
“Yes, I’m trying to reach Sir Robert Timkins; I’m told he’s the man in charge of Sledgehammer Nightmare.”
“Well, he stopped giving a s**t about anything a long time ago, but I’ll give him a message anyway,” he retched into the phone.
“If you would please tell him that Reed Duecer called from ‘The Disadvantaged Youth of America’, and he would like to invite Sledgehammer Nightmare to perform live during our ‘Disadvantaged Youth Telethon’, on cable access channel 4,678 on this coming Saturday. Of coarse, there would be no pay.”
Suddenly, the dark shadows that had taken over Sir Robert’s mind lifted. The Hammer lived! “Mr. Duecer, we’d LOVE to , I mean, ‘yes, I’ll tell him.”
The members of Sledgehammer Nightmare had loaded all their gear into the tiny studio. They were scheduled to play right after ‘Whiz Green and his Magic Saw’. Whiz Green had finished, mercifully, and The Hammer was ready to rock.
Sir Robert had written a new lyrics to an old song on the way here, and he wanted to be sure everyone knew their part. Everyone answered yes, so it looked to him like they were as ready as they’d ever be!
“Ladies and gentlemen, next up, we have a special treat for you,” said the announcer, “some of you younger viewers may have heard of this next band; would you welcome to our studios, and your television, Sledgehammer Nightmare! And don’t forget, call in your pledge, to benefit ‘The Disadvantaged Youth of America.”
Sir Robert approached the microphone, and said, “Thank you; we’d like to play a new song we wrote to honor why we’re all here. It goes something like this. A one, and a two...” Suddenly, the walls of the little studio almost seemed to bulge outward under the onslaught of just about the heaviest riff anyone had ever heard.
“Just send your money to help these loser kids, and you’ll feel better. Just a little money is all it takes, but what a difference in these loser kids lives it makes! Yeah, these loser kids need all the help you can give; they’ll more than likely still be losers, but at least they have some cas---”
At this point, the band looked like a reject pantomime outfit, as the continued to play their instruments, while nothing was coming out of their amplifiers.
“What the hell?” asked a livid Sir Robert.
Reed Duecer appeared, and replied, “What kind of lyrics are those? We pulled the plug on this absolute crap; we’re trying to help these children, not call them names!”
The black shadows had once again descended over the eyes of Sir Robert Timkins. Once again he failed to understand what they’d done wrong. All they were singing about was true! Once again, he thought,This is the Year of my Discontent!