Page 21 - Unlikely Stories 3

Chosen Fool

Guy Weyer, the Chosen Fool tribute band’s lead guitarist, glanced
up at the mirror, his attention caught by a commotion behind him at
the door to the cramped dressing room of the The Cave Inn.
“You can’t come in here, lady!”
Russell Grubbe, drummer for Frozen Drool, failed to back up his
words with action: a plump middle-aged woman stiff-armed him
against the wall, dodged Paul Tree and proceeded toward Weyer
under a full head of steam.
“You! You stay away from my daughter!” She waved her fist at
Guy as he swung around to face her, a cloth smeared with makeup in
his hand. “Holy shit! You don’t just sound like Hank O’Hare—you
look exactly like him in his prime!”
“Well, what did you expect? An Australian bushman?” Weyer
stopped wiping his face, leaving several patches of clown face intact.
He stared at her, his mouth slowly forming a grimace under the
greasepaint mask. “If she’s over eighteen and you don’t have a court
order or a gun, you can leave right now. We’re done for the night,
and that includes dealing with outraged mamas.”
“And the same smart-ass attitude! Listen up, wise guy: stay away
from Susan Fleigh.”
Guy shook his head. “Sorry. No memory for names.”
“Then I’ll show you!”
She opened her purse and found a wallet stuffed with photographs.
She pulled one out and shoved it under his nose. He stared at it, eyes
widening.
“Well?”
He blinked and stared at her. She blinked and stared at him.
“Who are you?” he stammered.
“Rhoda Cammell.”
He fell back in his chair, groaning. “Oh, no. No.” He turned to the
bass player, Jack Potts, sitting next to him. “I told you we never
should have played this town.”
“Why not? They loved Chosen Fool. Now they love us.”
Guy hung his head.

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