One Big Screw-Up!
By Mike Stevens
Ladies in evening dresses, men in tuxedos, and the air inside the concert hall was buzzing with the promise of what was to come. All of proper society’s upstanding citizens where gathered at Parson Hall to hear what just might be the greatest opera singer to come along in the last 50 years, Salvatore Garibaldi. His reputation was unmatched among living operatic voices. Tonight was the grand finale of the annual charity auction/ball, held each November by The Women’s Giving Society, who’s main purpose was to see that those less-fortunate had warm clothing, blankets, and food; enough so they could make it through the brutally-cold winter. Then, the wealthy people in attendance could feel like they’d done their part to help ‘the little people’, and could then turn their attention to $1000 dollar plates of pasta and listening to fine music. Their $1000 dollar ‘fee’ would in essence be paying to bring Salvador Garibaldi, who charged a premium price for the privilege of hearing his voice, in to perform.
King Thrash, a death-metal band, had been down on their luck since lead singer Bruno Dasic had been arrested for drugs. But now Dasic was out, having served his 2 years, and they were once again available to play. They had signed up with a temp agency, who would find them paying gigs. Just today, the agency had called with a last-minute show at this concert hall, due to sick call. They all thought it was a little weird to be doing a show at a hall that was well-known for high-brow concerts, but oh well, they were all eager to play, so they didn’t question it.
They showed up at the back door, and there wasn’t anyone around, so they quickly loaded all their equipment in, and up on the stage. They were all ready to play. A dude in a butler’s outfit stuck his head through the closed curtain, and did a double-take.
“Uh, are you the replacement?”
Bruno Dasic replied, “The replacement what, hip? Eh, ha ha!”
The elderly dude in the butler’s outfit then said, “I think there’s been some sort of mix-up!”
Dasic replied, “Look, pops, we were told to show up here to play by Tommie’s Temp Agency, and unless you want complaints up the a** from both them and us, I suggest you let us play!”
Well, the dude in the butler’s outfit certainly didn’t want any trouble, so he said, “Okay, I’ll just pop out front and introduce you.”
Dasic responded, “No, we want to surprise them; just open the curtain and we’ll start playing.”
Cocktails and cigars for the men, and cocktails for the women, were had all around, as the gathered crown waited for the entertainment. There was a riffling in the curtain, and then it opened. Suddenly there came an earth-shattering scream, and several drinks hit the floor. A flaming pentagram blazed away behind the drummer, and the band members looked like the very down and out people they were trying to help. Sound so loud and distorted that it couldn’t even be identified as music assaulted their ears. Several ladies screamed, and it only added to the incredible din.
“Thank you, people; are you ready to bang?” asked the man at the microphone.
“What did he say? Well I never!” said one elderly woman in a fine gray dress.
None of them could hear, and they gazed stupidly around at each other, in the vain hope that someone else knew what was happening. Just about then, the abomination before their eyes launched into another wall of indecipherable, mind-numbing, shrieking, god-awful noise.
The empty hall echoed with the remnants of their last song. It was their last song because the power had been turned off. Bruno Dasic stormed off the stage, and demanded to know what p****r had cut the power?
The dude who was dressed like a butler replied, “We had to do something; you boy’s were playing your electric whatever-they-are so loud, we couldn’t get your attention.”
“Well, you sure got it now, grandpa; now that you f****d it up!”
The members of Kill Thrash stormed into Tommie’s Temp Agency, and Bruno Dasic yelled,
“What kind of a c***-up do you call that?”
The man sitting behind the desk with the plaque announcing him as the manager, said, “We’re terribly sorry, we mixed up the venues your band was supposed to play at. You guys were mistakenly sent to a black-tie gala, and Sir Robert Timkins was sent to the 'Black Candle S**t-Fest.' We’re terribly sorry!”
© Copyright 2016 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.
Poem / Humor
Poem / Humor
Poem / Humor
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