"The Feds Shredded My Melodies (Chapter 1)" by Faero911

1. The Feds Shredded My Melodies

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4. By Christian Vosler

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41. Chapter One

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47. Donny was ecstatic. “You got us a gig?” He punched the air and whooped.

48. “Don!” Mel hissed, grabbing his wrists. “It won’t matter if you keep that up.” Donny fell silent quickly, checking around to see if anyone heard. Apparently satisfied, Mel let go of wrists, and Donny broke into another celebratory dance; albeit a silent one this time around.

49. Jimmy produced a half-grin at Donny antics, and it was all he could do to not let loose with a whoop of his own. They had a gig! Three and a half months hiatus off the underground rock ‘n’ roll scene, but now, Against the Institution was back. Donny hugged Jimmy.

50. “Have I ever told you how much I freaking love you?”

51. “Don, Don…geez! Man, chill a minute!” Jimmy pushed Donny away, and Jimmy looked around at the band, grinning at the excitement plastered on the others faces. This was as eager he’d seen Against the Institution in months.

52. The band was standing in a dark wheat field, somewhere in the middle of Ohio. Across the road was a small recharge station. Parked just outside the range of the station’s lights was the band van, the Epitome of Rock. The band’s driver (and sometimes cook) Mario was busy siphoning electricity from the stations underground generator. If you’re on the run from your own government, it pays to have a full battery.

53. It was a rare sighting these days, a vehicle fueled by such a crude, primitive substance as petroleum. It makes the fact that the human race gave it up by no choice of their own all the more pathetic. After the systematic bombing of the national oil reserve the U.S. was compelled by desperation to accomplish by action what they couldn't through legislation. In a matter of days federal revenue was transferred solely to alternative energy solutions, and within the close of the year one in three Americans was back to driving-- with charging stations replacing gas pumps and solar panels instead of sun roofs.

54. It all seems so distant now-- when cars were fueled by a liquid compound, when America held a reputation of unparalleled civil liberty-- when the U.S. still rocked. Literally.  Somewhere during the oil crisis, out of the abysmal cloud of smoke that seemed to have consumed America, there rose a shining light-- his name was Gordon Bradley. Simple. Blunt. Plain. Yet in a time of such extremities, he was precisely what the nation had needed.

55. Through a series of skillfully manipulated senatorial proceedings, "temporary" sovereignty had been granted to Bradley-- naturally, just until the passing of the crisis. Yet as one might deduce from histories dating back to the dawn of time-- Power was perverted. If you were to step out of a time capsule and into the America of the present, they could surely swear that time had reversed.

56. The Puritanistic view of those loyal to Bradley had consumed the traditional American spirit like John Candy and a cupcake; religious freedoms-- tossed out along with the Yakima’s. Dancing was again considered the work of the devil— disappearances became a daily occurrence. And along with the likes of lingerie and Monty Python-- rock was exiled. No more did Hendrix blow minds; Page would never melt faces with a double necked guitar. Even online music distribution was brought to a firm halt. The American culture was slowly fading, and, in the hearts and minds of much of the population, rock wouldn’t be far behind.

57. Almost. As many religions, genres, and lifestyles calmly accepted the ban—rock and roll did not. Speculation was high about how long it took for the first illegal rock radio station to air: the most common assumption was days, but a few argued it had taken but hours for the first station to start blaring tunes. Classical rock fans just wouldn’t have it. Garage bands popped up every day, while the more prominent rock legends that hadn’t already been imprisoned led the revolution against Bradley and his bullshit. Eventually the quality of “home-made” rock bands decreased greatly as generations passed away, and many skills were lost to time.

58. Jimmy shook his head. He looked around at the present day Against the Institution, noting the weary looks on their faces hiding behind the anticipation. He suspected that this exhaustion still lingered from the bands last gig, near Peoria, Arizona. The gig had been busted by the feds partway through, and Against the Institution was forced to run for their lives. Bounties, the largest of which was one-hundred thousand dollars, would be rewarded to anyone who successfully managed to capture and bring in a band member. After the disaster, Jimmy had thought it best to lay low for a while.

59. A small throat clearing noise brought back to the present. Mel, Against the Institution’s phenomenal lead singer, stood with her hands raised, the look on her face plainly communicating. Well? Jimmy nodded towards the ER.

60. “Hop in,” he said. “Let’s get on the road first.” Slowly and silently, they crossed the road. Mel first, her fluid dark red hair bouncing in time with the hypnotic moving of her hips as she ran quickly from one shadow to another. Preston next, his sturdy frame and dark skin slipping as easily into the night as hand into a glove. Vos, Donny and Jimmy followed, with the hulking Oz bringing up the rear. One by one, they entered the van.

61. “Van” probably wasn’t an appropriate term for the ER. It was really a forty foot long entertainment bus, painted pitch black and with all lights removed. As they stepped inside, Jimmy spied Mario, dead asleep in the driver’s chair.

62. Aside from driver and cook, Mario was also the bands tech guy, running the lights and mixing board behind the scenes at concerts. He was overweight and balding, wearing a pair of cracked, dirty glasses on his face, and a pair of large headphones around his neck. His sleeping face was peaceful, with at least a week’s worth of stubble on his chin.

63. Jimmy motioned to the others to let him sleep. Mar didn’t get nearly enough sleep as it was—then again—neither did any of them. Mel, in front, brushed back a dark curtain and continued. Just behind the cab of the bus was the sleeping quarters for Against the Institution. Three sets of bunks, sets on the left, one on the right, were the extent of it. Each bunk was wide enough to fit one average sized adult, and was laid out with simple light blue cotton sheets. A space on the right that had previously held another set of bunks had been removed in favor of a cramped 3 x 8 bathroom with a wall sink, a toilet, and a small shower. Mel strode on, waving aside another curtain.

64. The final compartment on the ER was the lifeblood of Against the Institution. A mobile recording studio, almost twenty feet long, allowed the illegal rockers to rehearse and record on the move; they could even send the music via internet to their friends at WLFR radio in New York.

65. The studio was half the length of the entire bus, and divided into two parts by an invisible line. The entire room was lined with two inches of sound insulating foam; protecting against the possibility that an especially loud outburst would give them away in the dead of night. The first half of the studio consisted of a long, glossy counter on the right side. The counter held a pair of 2070 Macintosh Hydras installed with Echo software (an audio editor the band used largely in post production) and an average sized 10 input, 4 output mixing board. The amps for Jimmy’s, Preston’s, and Donny’s guitars, sat tidily underneath the counter, as the axe-players used pedals to toggle distortion.

66. The second half of the studio was marked with four speakers hanging at the corners of a rough 8 x 10 square. A full Zjidian drum kit sat at the very back of the space, facing the sleeping quarters and cabin of the ER. It was surrounded by five dynamic microphones that hung suspended from the ceiling of the van. Another four mikes hung adjacent to the speakers in the corners, transmitting the signals they received straight to one of the two computers.

67. The entire recording setup was wireless. Adapters plugged into the three guitars and sent signals to the pedals at the feet of the rockers. The pedals received this signal with one adapter and relayed it to the mixing boards input jacks with another. The mixing board then connected to the quartet of speakers via adapters connected to the output jacks, where the mikes gathered in the sound waves and transferred them to the computers for editing. This system turned the mixing board into a master volume, able to control the three guitars and the mike accordingly, and at the same time making it sickly easy for the jammers to add, change, or get rid of distortion with an easy click of a pedal.

68. Jimmy had been in this chamber countless times before, and surveyed all of this in a second or less. He waved his hand, indicating for Against the Institution to take a seat in one of the many plastic folding chairs spread throughout the room. Jimmy pulled a cracked white chair of his own forward and let himself slide into it, feeling the sweet relief flow up his legs. He took a quick look at the renegades.

69. Mel was standing, arms crossed, her dark green eyes gazing expectantly at him from under a wave of black-streaked red hair. Mel was Against the Institution’s ***** fine singer.

70. Preston and Donny had taken his offer, though, and pulled up a couple of seats. Preston, middle aged, bald, with rich dark ebony skin and a chinstrap goatee, looked nonchalant and genuinely excited about the impending news. Preston played a sickly smooth rhythm guitar.

71. If Preston was the red end of the color spectrum, then Donny was the violet end. Young and very white, Donny’s dazzling blue eyes countered Preston’s brown ones, his flurry of blonde spikes a response to the other man’s bald skull. Donny was the band optimist, and an electrically awesome bass player.

72. Vos leaned against the side of the bus, a toothpick protruding from his mouth and his auburn ponytail snaking over his shoulder and nearly reaching down to his waist. His face showed no emotion, which was not unusual. Prone to violent mood swings, the only time anyone was ever sure of Vos’ intentions was when his abnormally long fingers were flying over the brass body of his sax in a heart wrenching solo.

73. The final member of Against the Institution, apart from Jimmy himself, sat upright on the drummers stool at the very back of the studio. Osbourne was an enormous Asian, more commonly referred to as Oz. His muscles rippled under a simple white tank top, which he seemed to have an endless supply of, and his eyes and hair were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses and a raggedy backwards-facing baseball cap. Oz played, no destroyed, the drums.

74. Jimmy didn’t have to look at himself. Twenty-three and counting, he’d been on the run for the better part of his life. Dark curls fell down past his eyes, blue eyes, almost to the simple goatee on his chin. Jimmy played lead guitar, and he was thebest to be found in a purist, rock-less nation.

75. “We’ve got a gig,” Jimmy said, then cleared his throat and continued. The sitting band members leaned forward excitedly.

76. “Some folks in the Midwest got sick of government music, and put out an ad for a rock concert on a secure connection. Our wonderful toadie up there,” he nodded toward the cabin, “got us in first.

77. “The venue-no I haven’t seen it- is just south of Chicago. From what Mar tells me it’s about a two day drive east of wherever we are now. We’re not sure entirely how many people to expect, but the best guess is around eight-thousand.”

78. This perked everyone up. It had been at least a decade since a band had held a concert of that size. Still, no one said anything. Mel looked excited but worried. Vos’ face showed nothing, as usual, and Donny was about ready to pee his pants. He leapt out of his chair after a moment, whooping and spinning. Preston roared with laughter, with proved to be infectious. Pretty soon the whole band was doubled up, and Donny continued his celebration with a face-splitting smile.

79. As the ruckus died down, Oz spoke up.

80. “When?” That was as complicated as it got with Oz. Jimmy grinned again, he just couldn’t stop.

81. “10th.”

82. “We’d better practice.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Donny yelped,

83. “Whoo, boy Ozzy! That was quite a mouthful!” Another round of laughs, then Jimmy turned to Mel,

84. “Grab Mar, would you? Tell him to start her up.” Mel nodded and walked briskly through the curtain toward the cabin. Jimmy turned to the rest of the band. “Weapons and places,” he said, and Against the Institution moved as one toward the large black locker on the right side of the studio. Vos got there first, as he had been leaning against the wall. With a quick twist of the silver handle, the door swung open.

85. The inside of the locker was stainless steel, reflecting the various colors of the instruments. The top rack held three gleaming electric guitars, each fifty-three years old, and yet the newest on the market. Below was Vos’ golden brass saxophone, and beneath that was an entire spare drum kit for Oz. The band selected their tools accordingly, Preston and Donny swinging a large black bass guitar and a psychedelic purple six-string of the top rack. Vos grasped his sax, but Jimmy had his eyes fixed on one thing only.

86. The Liberator. The one object in the world he loved most after Against the Institution. A 2019 Les Paul Epiphone, dark red marked the edge of the Liberator and blended into a beautiful dark ebony around shining silver pickups. A black maple neck was adorned with the same blistering red fret inlays under steel strings. This was Jimmy’s baby, and he tenderly lifted her off the rack and slung the neck cord over his shoulder.

87. He turned around. Mel was back, and the rest of Against the Institution seemed to be in place. Jimmy stepped forward, tuned his guitar with a twist of a knob, and then strummed a single melodious chord. E Minor had always been his favorite.

88. The bus lurched forward. Against the Institution began to play.

89. ***

90. In the driver’s seat, Mario rubbed his eyes. With a lazy flick a finger, he detached the electricity siphon before turning on the ER. The van didn’t have headlights, so Mario reached up above the mirror and pulled down a pair of enormous goggles that were layered like a wedding cake. He pulled the goggles over his face, glasses and all, and tightened the strap. Mario toggled a switch on the side of the goggles, and his world lit up bright as day. He grinned, pressing the gas. The ER and its contents disappeared into the night.

91. ***

92. Something nudged Jimmy. His eyes fluttered open, then closed, and open again. As his blurry world slow cleared, he found himself looking at Mel’s angelic features. Her face was turned toward his, red hair unruly and tangled. His first thought, strangely, was not Oh my God, what have I done?, but Oh my God, where the hell is my guitar?

93. With speed unnatural for someone who had just wakened five seconds before, Jimmy leapt up and strode to the instrument locker, still not quite conscious. He tore it open and found Liberator hanging from the rack, untouched. A sleepy smile crossed Jimmy’s face, and he turned one hundred-eighty degrees to walk through the curtain and fall onto the first bed he came to.

94. Something nudged him again. Jimmy swore drowsily and shifted his head to look at the disturber. Mario stood politely next to the cot.

95. “Someone wants to see you,” he said in his throaty voice. Jimmy swore again and mumbled,

96. “Ten minutes?” Mario nodded and walked back down the hallway toward the cabin. Jimmy hauled himself out of the bed and stumbled into the small shower. The shower was only three feet by four feet, in a sense only enough room to turn in a tight circle.

97. The hot water felt good, really good. Grudgingly, Jimmy stepped out and toweled off. He dressed in a pair of baggy blue Aeropostale jeans, vintage, and a plain grey T-shirt. His curly black hair was still wet, so he ran a towel over it vigorously and shook his head a few times. A throb of pain awakened him to the reality that his skull was housing the mother of all headaches. I guess that’s what I get for thirty-six hours straight practice. Mario was waiting for him outside the ER.

98. As Jimmy stepped out of the bus, his feet found cement floor. The team bus was parked in what appeared to be a large warehouse. Bright lights hung from the rafters, reflecting viciously off the rows and rows of white buses lined throughout the building.

99. “It’s a bus barn. Holds the buses for three schools districts south of Chicago. This is just parking though; your gig is about twenty-miles west of here.” Mario answered the unasked question. Jimmy raised his eyebrows.

100. “Thanks point Dexter. Where’s our guy?” Mario pointed and started walking. Jimmy followed, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare with his hand. Past the rows and rows of shiny white school buses were racks of repair equipment; wrenches, oil cans, and the like. Mario continued farther past these and led Jimmy up a set of carpeted stairs.

101. At the top of the stairs, the pair entered what appeared to be a small office by a door on the right. The room was cramped and stuffy; a man sat behind a desk at the back, and an ugly orange couch sat against the wall at the other end. File boxes were packed to the ceiling along two walls of the room, overflowing with paper.

102. The man behind the desk was dark skinned and bald, with evidence of a muscular physique beneath his simple suit. His eyes were reedy and calculating; he looked like a politician. Jimmy didn’t trust politicians.

103. The man stood and reached out a hand. Jimmy shook it firmly, without looking the man in the eye.

104. “James Morrow. I’m a fan. My name’s Wyatt Jordan.” Jimmy looked up and nodded,

105. “I prefer Jimmy, if you don’t mind Mr. Jordan.” Jordan grinned and motioned to the orange couch, on which Jimmy and Mario promptly sat. Jordan wasted no time,

106. “Your venue is twenty miles south-east of here, in Minooka. All arrangements have been made, and you have a little over thirty-three hours until the gig to practice. Before you ask, I insure you that the venue is sound proofed, and does not include any unnecessary lights or explosions for the finale. The people are looking forward to a rocking show; it wouldn’t be if the main act were captured by the government.” he sighed. “Any questions?”

107. “Do we have somewhere to practice, or are we stuck on the bus?” Jimmy asked.

108. “The latter, I’m afraid. The venue setup we have currently is precarious as it is. It’s not easy to create a building that will house thousands of people, and be inconspicuous and completely silent at the same time.” Jimmy just nodded. He noticed Mario had left. Dammit, he was going to have to have a talk with that midget cook of his.

109. Jordan said impatiently,

110. “Anything else?”

111. “Yeah, are we getting paid for this gig?” Jimmy asked same last question he always did, his voice full of cynicism. Jordan chuckled. Jimmy didn’t like that chuckle.

112. “Now why on earth would you get paid? These people are deprived, Mr. Morrow. The way I see it you’re doing them a public service. Get paid…” Jimmy had expected that. When he left the office he felt a little dented, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. It was normal for a producer to refuse a band pay in this day in age, but Jimmy had still hoped that Against the Institution could catch a break doing what they loved.

113. He returned to the bus to find Mario non-existent and Mel just stepping out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her lean form. She grinned at him, and he returned the smile.

114. “So,” she said, stretching the towel between the bathroom and the far wall as she proceeded to get dressed, “Was he a prick?” Jimmy laughed, partly because the towel wasn’t thick enough to hide all her features.

115. “Not exactly,” Jimmy tried to stop from blushing as Mel slipped on her pants, “but he’s a total stiff neck, not like a rock n’ roll fan at all.” Mel wriggled into her shirt and dropped the towel. She laughed.

116. “I don’t know, Jim. Some of those guys can be real party animals when the music starts playing.” She shook her head, still-wet hair splaying outward. Jimmy became suddenly aware of the intoxicating scent in the air. She sauntered forward and dropped her voice to a worried whisper.

117. “This doesn’t feel right, Jimmy,” she said, placing her soft hands on his shoulders. “I’m getting a really bad vibe about this gig.” Jimmy was incredulous. Was she insane?

118. “Are you kidding? It’s our first gig in months! The feds have gotten lazy. Add that to the fact that the venue is in Nowhere, Illinois—”

119. “We’re only forty miles from Chicago. It’s practically a suburb! Eight thousand people? How are we going to pull this off?” Jimmy pushed past her.

120. “Look, Stiffy said everything was arranged, it’ll be fine. I’ve got some backup plans and rendezvous points planned out already. In fact, I was just on my way to brief the band. But if you want out…”

121. “I never said that!” Mel’s legendary temper flared, “I just wanted you to know—”

122. Jimmy cut her short. She had brought his tower of elation crashing down, and now he was pissed.

123. “We’re not canceling the gig because of a premonition, or a feeling, or whatever!”

124. When Jimmy’s voice rose above conversational level, Mel’s face turned serious again. She said very coolly,

125. “Who said anything about canceling? Go ahead and play your gig, and count me in. But when it happens, I’m going to say I told you so.” She walked past a flustered Jimmy and into the studio.

126. “When what happens?” he called after her, knowing the answer, but she had already disappeared behind the curtain.

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