Tales of Misery and Imagination Part 3

Never in his life had Robbie heard three words that held more potential. "Sounds cool," he said.

Lupe and Rox hooted with glee. Panda gave him a c.o.c.keyed smile. Rox spun through a U-turn and romped on the gas, slinging the car in the direction of Chesbrook Mall.

"Gimme," Trouble barked, grabbing the books from Robbie's lap. She tossed them onto the shelf behind the back seat. The proximity of teenage-girl hands to his crotch gave him an immediate and unexpected erection; he leaned forward slightly in hopes of keeping it under wraps.

The girl in the middle up front Susie or Tammy shoved a ca.s.sette into the deck. It was Devil Without a Cause by Kid Rock. Robbie hated Kid Rock, but somehow the cacophonous horses.h.i.+t seemed appropriate to the situation. Susie-or-Tammy cranked it up, banging her head in time to "Bawitdaba," her dirty blonde hair rhythmically slapping the headliner.

Robbie's b.o.n.e.r eventually faded enough for him to get out of the car and into the mall without embarra.s.sment (his anxiety was screamingly apparent, however), and he was enjoying the thrill of sauntering through the second-largest shopping center in town with six fabulous girls surrounding him. The place was uncrowded at this time of day. Most people considered Chesbrook Mall the runner-up; if for some reason Lamont Center could not perform her duties as shopping Mecca, Chesbrook would step in but Robbie suspected this particular center had been chosen by the girls because it contained the Wet Seal store.

A supplier of fine fas.h.i.+ons and accoutrements for teenage girls, Wet Seal had haunted Robbie since it appeared in the mall a little over a year ago, a temple for a strange and enigmatic sect. Not only had he never set foot in the place, he was afraid to openly peer inside as he walked past. Furtive glances had revealed shapely young mannequins dressed in tummy-exposing baby-tees and hip-hugging pants, while sleek girls better-suited to crooning bubblegum-pop songs on MTV folded and rotated the stock. Like the Bermuda Triangle, Robbie knew that Wet Seal, once entered, would never allow him to escape.

He had adopted Panda as his official favorite of the group and was sticking close to her as they walked through the food court. Aside from the obvious reasons, Panda just seemed the safest of the bunch: Rox, despite her friendliness, was enormous once she got out of the car, easily topping Robbie's gangly height by four inches. Lupe and Trouble were simply too frightening, while Susie-or-Tammy had demonstrated that dismaying affection for Kid Rock, and her counterpart Tammy-or-Susie hadn't spoken a word in front of Robbie but furrowed her brow sternly anytime she caught him looking at her.

As the group came to a stop for Rox to buy an Orange Julius, Robbie risked a look in the direction of Wet Seal. He twitched slightly in antic.i.p.ation.

"What happened to your face?" Panda asked, startling him.

He quickly turned toward her, feeling caught. "Huh?" he responded.

Panda put a gentle fingertip to the sc.r.a.pe on his cheek. "Right here."

In all the excitement, Robbie had completely forgotten about his run-in with Mike s.h.i.+plet. In fact, he had completely forgotten about Mike s.h.i.+plet, as if none of the degrading and awful c.r.a.p that pain-in-the-a.s.s meatneck had put him through had ever happened. The thought overwhelmed Robbie, and he stammered a moment before answering. "I was in a fight," he finally muttered distractedly.

He might as well have said I eat bugs and love it, judging from the look that clouded Panda's face. Stricken, he desperately searched for a way to make things right. "Well, not really a fight," he settled on. "More like I just got pushed around for awhile." Brilliant. That did a terrific job of making him sound pathetic and weak. Before Robbie could make another recovery attempt, Panda was distracted by Rox's need for seventeen cents and the moment was lost. Stung, Robbie tried to figure out what he had done wrong wasn't being in a fight a solid, manly endeavor? Why had the idea filled Panda with such distaste? And why couldn't somebody in the know write this stuff down for easy reference? That's what kids needed more than guidance counselors or child psychologists a handbook of all the things not to say or do or worry about when you're a teenager. That and mandatory Karate lessons so everyone would be a.s.sured of an a.s.s-kicking if they tried anything on anybody else. It worked for nuclear weapons, after all.

Balled-up by his faux pas, Robbie hadn't even realized they were on the move again, and now Wet Seal was looming. The fear that he had strained his relations.h.i.+p or whatever it was with Panda left him feeling uneasy and out-of-place with the girls, and he began to wish he hadn't accepted the ride.

All this was pushed from his mind as they neared Wet Seal. Robbie stole his first-ever lingering look at the display window, marveling at the fas.h.i.+ons on exhibit there. The girls he accompanied were dressed in a rather stirring manner themselves (heavy emphasis on spaghetti straps and bare bellies), but did parents actually allow their daughters out of the house in the stuff this store was pus.h.i.+ng? Robbie's throat went dry as the import of the moment took hold. For more than a year, he had harbored a secret and unnatural desire to experience the delights this emporium no doubt held; his ardor fueled by thoughts of bell-bottom stretch pants, electric-blue vinyl halter tops, scandalously short mini-skirts. This was the Teenage Girl equivalent of the Pentagon, and he had an all-access pa.s.s courtesy of his six lovely traveling companions.

Upon entering, the girls spread out across the store, leaving Robbie pinballing back and forth for a few seconds before deciding to stick with Panda and Rox. Shuffling along behind the two, he was stunned when one of the Wet Seal Girls on duty said hi to him as if he had every right to intrude on her turf. She was quite fetching in her Seal-sanctioned ensemble, her thigh-high stockings a particularly appealing touch. Robbie beamed at her as if she had just rattled off the numbers on his lottery ticket.

Buoyed by this acceptance, Robbie decided to avail himself of an opportunity long dreamed of: he casually strolled into the lingerie section. A lump formed in his throat as he admired the selection of panties offered for sale, delicate items he feared he might never observe in their native habitat. He looked up to find Trouble studying him with amus.e.m.e.nt. A strangled cluck escaped his throat.

"Come here a minute," Trouble demanded, beckoning with a thin finger. Robbie did as he was told, joining the girl at the makeup counter.

"What were you doing over there?" Trouble asked.

"I dunno, looking," Robbie answered, horrified. Trouble slid a tube of lipstick from the Urban Decay display, palmed it, then stuffed her hand into Robbie's pocket, leaving the lipstick behind. The blood gushed into his groin so quickly he figured she must've felt his p.e.n.i.s leap like a startled animal.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, eyes darting back and forth cartoonishly.

"I dunno, stealing," she said. "Shh." Giving him a playful scratch under the chin, she walked away. Robbie stood frozen in disbelief, his pants bearing the oppressive weight of stolen lipstick and a raging hard-on.

It was dark by the time they left Chesbrook Mall. There had been several tense minutes at Wet Seal as Robbie positioned himself behind racks of clothing or crouched to tie his shoes, but as far as he could tell none of the girls had spotted his erection (something that concerned him far more than getting caught shoplifting). Trouble kept giving him funny looks, however, and he suspected she was aware of the riot she had incited in his pants.

Despite the near-disaster, he had conquered his Bermuda Triangle, and what struck him most was that it was just a store. No cryptic handshakes or exchanges of pa.s.sword/counter-pa.s.sword: the only secret he had uncovered was that teenage girls apparently have a ton of money to spend on clothes. He felt foolish for having been afraid to enter the place for so long.

Susie-or-Tammy, her hair once again buffeting the roof of the car as Kid Rock shrieked hysterically about being a cowboy, had insisted on stopping by the Krunchy Freez for donuts. Rox accused her of being pregnant, which made Susie-or-Tammy so mad Robbie thought it might be true; but a dozen donuts, three coffees and four c.o.kes later they made their way to the golf course near Robbie's fict.i.tious home. He knew he'd have to spill the beans sooner or later, either that or face the prospect of walking a h.e.l.l of a long way back to his real house. He figured his parents were already going to kill him; any further time wasted would only make his death more agonizing.

Something funny was going on with Panda, however, and he wanted to see what it was all about.

The sprinklers had come on across the golf course and Rox, Susie-or-Tammy and Tammy-or-Susie had scampered off to play in them. Lupe and Trouble went along, although they weren't running through the frigid spray (Robbie didn't know how the girls could stand it on such a chilly night). The funny part was that Panda had not gone off with her friends, choosing instead to sit in the gra.s.s with Robbie and the nearly-empty box of donuts.

They watched the tiny figures squealing and giggling as they ran back and forth in the cold water. "They're so gonna wish they hadn't done that," Panda said, looking at Robbie. "Aren't you cold?"

Robbie nodded. "What's the deal with Lupe and Trouble?" he asked, mostly because he couldn't think of anything else.

"They probably don't want all that mascara to run," Panda said.

"No, I mean, why are they all, you know, spooky?"

"They're not spooky, they're just kinda mopey sometimes. They're all psychic-friends and s.h.i.+t, connected at the brain it's not like they planned to do the Goth thing, they both just showed up at school one day looking like Marilyn Manson. It never stops. They even get their periods at the same time."

Yikes. Maybe it was time for another line of questioning. Before Robbie could work up anything worth forming into a sentence, Panda reached out to absent-mindedly touch the sc.r.a.pe on his cheek again, pretty much rendering him incapable of thought. Her hand lingered for a moment, caressing his face. It was the most physical contact he had ever had with a girl, other than Trouble's hand down his pants (which, as physical contact goes, seemed like a good start). Panda stared dolefully at him, one moist, green eye on his wound, the other aimed somewhere in the vicinity of his left eyebrow. Then she suddenly leaned in to plant a tiny kiss on the sore spot.

Robbie felt lightheaded and his ears inexplicably pinned themselves back. He struggled to choose an eye to gaze into, finally settling on the one that seemed to be looking back at him. This was it it had to be: The First Kiss. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. He swallowed hard.

And Panda settled back on the gra.s.s, looking off at the other girls once again.

Wait a minute. That's not right.

He watched her for a moment. She lipped the straw on her c.o.ke, took a swig. Set the cup down on the gra.s.s. Gently scratched an itch on her right wrist.

Nothing goes the way it's supposed to, Robbie decided. He returned his attention to coming up with something to talk about. "How did you end up with a name like Panda?" he asked. It came out sounding like why do you smell funny and he immediately wished he had phrased it differently.

Unperturbed, she turned towards him again. Her slender, pretty face made him feel like wringing his hands. "My mom miscarried three times before I came along," she said. "She and my dad figured that made me an endangered species." She smiled, delighted that she had been the one who stuck it out.

Then she kissed him.

Dead-on, lips-on-lips, her teeth sc.r.a.ping softly on his mouth as her hesitant tongue daintily tested the waters. Small animals crawled beneath his skin. Blood pounded in his brain, heart and groin. He drew a sharp breath as he and Panda parted, a tiny ribbon of saliva stretching between them, then breaking. The strand of spit glistened on her chin; embarra.s.sed, she reached up to wipe it away.

"We leave you alone for five minutes," Trouble said gruffly, "and you're practically in each others' pants."

Startled, Robbie and Panda looked up to find the other girls strolling towards them. Rox, Susie-or-Tammy and Tammy-or-Susie were drenched and s.h.i.+vering, their clothes clinging to them, revealing various undergarments. Tammy-or-Susie appeared offended by the little romantic interlude, her furrow deeper than Robbie had seen it before.

"We'd better get this fella home," Rox said, grinning. "Sorry, Panda." Panda gave her a demure smile, her teeth nudging her lips apart slightly.

Oh boy. Here it comes. "Uh..." Robbie began, dragging it out until it became a groan. "I don't... really..." searching for the words, finally throwing in the towel: "...live near here."

Tammy-or-Susie's furrow took on canyon-esque proportions. Panda gave him a surprised look.

"Where do you live?" Rox asked, her foot tapping the damp gra.s.s.

"About two houses away from where you picked me up," Robbie said, mortified. "I just wanted to go for a ride with you guys."

Rox took a step forward, towering over him, hands on hips. Her eyes narrowed menacingly. "Then we're going to have to kill you."

Growling, she leapt on Robbie, rolling him in the gra.s.s. It took him several seconds to realize the gigantic girl was only playing with him, then he began giggling uncontrollably. Panda and the other girls (except for Tammy-or-Susie, who didn't approve) joined in, wrestling and tickling him as the sprinklers hissed to life around them.

His parents went through the roof when Robbie shuffled in around 9:30, soaking wet, covered with mud and gra.s.s stains and reeking of perfume. He had never caused them much grief in the past, though, so although his mother rattled off a laundry list of ridiculous theories as to what he had been up to he skinned by with being grounded for a week, and since he never went out much anyway, that wasn't too unbearable.

Undressing, he remembered the lipstick Trouble had stolen. He dug it out of his pocket, peeling the wrapper from his U-No bar away from the metallic tube and leaving a smear of chocolate. Plague, the color was called. Robbie opened it, examining the dark purplish stick. It was Trouble all over. He tossed his filthy clothes in the hamper (withholding his s.h.i.+rt it still smelled like Panda and Rox and he wanted it with him for awhile longer), showered, and headed for his room.

Setting the tube of lipstick on his bedside table, Robbie picked up his plastic-bagged copy of The Amazing Spider- Man #29 and crawled into bed. Never Step on a Scorpion! the cover blurb admonished, above a drawing of Spider-Man getting pummeled by arch-nemesis The Scorpion. Robbie gazed at the cover for a moment, then let the comic flop back on his chest, focusing his attention instead on the ceiling.

He felt he had been handed something, some knowledge n.o.body else had. The girls, strange as it seemed, acted pretty much like he and his friends did the only time they were flaky at all was in the car, when they'd sing along to the tape deck and dance in their seats, giggling and pointing. And that kiss! If that wasn't a major step into some new and extraordinary world, he didn't know what was. (It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't thought to ask Panda for her phone number, but the girls had promised to pick him up again soon and he'd do it then.) No doubt about it, he had entered Teenage Girl Central and been welcomed as an amba.s.sador.

Robbie switched off the light and settled his head back into his pillow. For the first time he could remember, he felt a sense of contentment. It must've been the way Owen Weaver felt like there was just something different inside him, something...

Well, something cool.

Robbie ate his lunch outside the next day, staring off across the practice field feeling dreamy and affable and yes, even a bit virile. He was shaken from it when Mike s.h.i.+plet punched him in the stomach and stole his Chee-tos.

To The Editors of Teen People is a product of its time - the late 1990s-early 2000s, when the boy-band phenomenon was raging out of control. I didn't have a clue where to even begin submitting this story - as a result, it never went to anyone, but I like it. I even have a half-a.s.sed mock-up of the first GETT BUST'N CD sitting around here somewhere, including a booklet of c.r.a.ppy lyrics. And no, you can't see it.

I'm not even sure if TEEN PEOPLE is still being published.

TO THE EDITORS OF TEEN PEOPLE.

Dear Teen People: I don't know what it is exactly I hope to accomplish with this maybe it's a cautionary tale or something. Or a suicide note. Christ.

You know the whole boy-band phenomenon: Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, 98 Degrees, Boyzone, O-Town... to this day, I don't know how many of them there actually are, but it's a s.h.i.+tload all of them prancing around like a bunch of Armani-clad candya.s.ses. But I'll bet my last dollar you don't remember the boy-band I was in. Does your little sister have any alb.u.ms by Gett Bust'N?

I was twenty; living in New Mexico and working for a company that installed gas pumps, underground tanks, that sort of thing. The kind of job that left you exhausted and filthy and reeking of unleaded at the end of every day. It was a piece of s.h.i.+t. I was making a decent wage, but could never stay awake late enough to go blow any of it, so all I ever did was watch television and yank my miserable pud. I had a pretty cool stereo system, though.

Anyway, I'm lying there one night watching a rerun of TRL on MTV, and of course the top ten is nothing but these G.o.dd.a.m.n boy-bands either that or the teenybopper pop chicks like Britney and Christina. They broke for a commercial I don't know what the cable system you have is like, but the one I had would feed local spots in instead of the network ads and this ad comes on announcing a talent search for a new singing group. No prior s...o...b..z experience necessary.

All right, I know it sounds stupid, but I had just spent the better part of an hour watching hot teenage girls shriek at a bunch of dancing sissies who didn't have anything on me other than terrific bone structure. All the manual labor I'd been doing had left me in good shape thin, but in a lean, Bruce Lee kind of way and I could bust a solid move or two, so I figured what the h.e.l.l?

Sat.u.r.day found me at the mall, standing in this ridiculous line full of pretty boys, male models, skaterkids, and clueless losers. As each guy reached the front of the line, they'd say their name (each audition was videotaped) and then cut loose with a song. You should've heard it. Some of them were so pathetic it made me kind of sad, in a way the hopelessness of it, you know?

Anyway long story short I kicked a.s.s and got picked for the group. The mastermind behind it all was a guy named Eduardo Prescott I'm sure the readers of your magazine remember him, he used to manage Lonely Bull before their lead singer went into hiding after the shark attack.

Eduardo flew me out to LA, where I was introduced to the other guys who had been chosen: Grant, Duro, Chad and Angel. Grant was the oldest at twenty-two; he was from Little Rock and had been in some kind of rockabilly band. Duro acted all mysterious and suave, like he was a gypsy or something; looking back, I probably should've known he was a bad seed. Chad and Angel were twins and had been the stars of a public access show in Rapid City (I saw a tape of one episode all they did was sing these lame folk songs, stuff about the blossoms of your soul and horses running wild and free, s.h.i.+t like that). They had okay voices, I guess, but I maintain that those boys got picked purely for their looks. None of us had the slightest idea what the h.e.l.l we were getting into.

We were immediately thrust into a frenzy of makeovers: hairstylists, designer fas.h.i.+ons, facial peels the whole nine yards. Grant and the others took to it better than I did (all the poking and prodding made me feel like a fruit), and because of that, Eduardo stuck me with being the "wild and spontaneous" member of the group. I thought it was cool at first (I had a couple tattoos), but then he made me dye my hair lime green and told me my stage name would be "Jester." Can you believe that s.h.i.+t? Jester.

After we had our respective looks down, we began rehearsals. Eduardo and his partner Mu'nche'e had already written a stack of songs, so all we had to do was learn the dance moves that went with each one and decide who was going to sing lead (it was always Chad or Angel, of course). In no time flat, we had sixteen tracks laid down and a contract with Capitol Records (Eduardo had a lot of pull back then). Our first alb.u.m, Lov'N Coast 2 Coast, was due to hit record stores in June, and we had only been together for five weeks.

Eduardo decided the first single would be "Girl Keep It Next 2 That," a slow jam with funky beats. A guy named Gregory Dark was hired to direct the video I was a fan of Dark's because of the p.o.r.no movies he had directed, so it was something of an honor to work with him. He came with up with a great idea we played thirties-era gangsters and there was this whole star-crossed romance where Chad was in love with the daughter (a smokin' hot Playboy model) of the G-Man who was pursuing us. It was like Bonnie and Clyde, but on the hip-hop tip. Once that was in the can, we were off on a whirlwind promotional tour.

Those early days were the best, when all we had was potential. It didn't last long. I'm not stupid I knew the whole teen-idol thing was a nowhere road; I just wanted my slice of the pie, like anybody else. And that particular pie sprinkled as it was with a b.u.t.tery topping of tasty teenage girls was just screaming for me to sink my teeth into it.

We started out like most of the bubblegum acts: playing at malls for crowds of wors.h.i.+pful teens. It was weird, going from being this lonely guy sitting around watching TV every night to suddenly having hundreds of cute girls grabbing at me and screaming my name (okay, they were screaming "Jester! Jesterrrr!" but the effect was the same). Eduardo put an end to the mall shows, though, after a bunch of Cholos tried to start some s.h.i.+t with me and Duro when we were leaving the stage in Oxnard. Security stepped in before we could give those punks what they were asking for, but afterwards somebody fired a couple shots into the back of the tour bus as it was pulling out of the mall parking lot and Eduardo about flipped.

There wasn't much in the way of money yet the alb.u.m hadn't been released but we more than made up for it in other ways, I can a.s.sure you. Those girls... I don't know what it was, but something about them seeing you up on stage made them open to suggestion, and I had plenty to offer. Sure as h.e.l.l made up for any lost time (and they were all at least eighteen, I swear).

It got weird, though life on the road. Even with all the attention and the easy s.e.x, I still felt lonely, adrift, even disoriented. One night at a Motel 6, I ended up in a room with Chad and Angel. Jesus, I'm not sure why I'm revealing this; I guess just as an ill.u.s.tration of how the touring life can get to you but anyway, Angel had gone off to a bar with the other guys, leaving me and Chad alone. Chad was obsessive about bathing and wanted to shower right away, while I felt kind of grumpy and didn't want to be around the rest of the guys for awhile. I was watching "Green Acres" when Chad came out of the bathroom, totally naked and toweling his hair. He stopped in front of the TV to laugh at that pig (what was his name? Arnold Ziffel?), and his bare b.u.t.t was right there in front of me, beads of water rolling over the curves, cheeks bobbling as he laughed. Look, I know what you're thinking, but I swear, if you could've seen it: he had a rump on him like a thirteen-year-old girl. Pink, hairless, spankable as all h.e.l.l. Not that I've seen any thirteen-year-old a.s.s, mind you. And just for the record, all we did was watch TV.

"Girl Keep It Next 2 That" hit MTV near the end of May. It didn't exactly set the world on fire, but on the strength of Chad and Angel's looks the video made it onto TRL (at number 10) and we were lined up for a personal appearance.

It was around this time that Duro started to lose it. It was subtle at first: he'd have a couple more beers at night, keep to himself on the tour bus, act cranky with the other guys. By the day we were scheduled to appear on TRL, however, he was talking crazy s.h.i.+t about his mother and he kept insisting that we ask him where his cat went. n.o.body wanted to, so I guess you can say we ignored all the warning signs.

The minute we arrived on the set, I knew things were going to get screwy. Duro started out by insulting Carson Daly, giving him h.e.l.l about breaking up with Jennifer Love Hewitt, stuff like that. Carson understandably got p.i.s.sed (I think he was already so fed up with the boy-bands that he didn't have much patience left for any bulls.h.i.+t), so the whole deal was tainted before we ever hit the airwaves.

When the time came, Carson, the consummate professional, introduced us to the studio audience of screaming girls. We did the friendly banter, talked about likes and dislikes, all the standard stuff, until Duro grabbed the mike from Carson and on live TV accused his mother of being "the devil's wh.o.r.e" and claimed that his p.e.n.i.s spat flames when he came.

I'm sure you can imagine how this went over with the audience, but it only got worse when some frat boy broke the horrified silence with a cry of "Korn rules!" We all had a stack of promotional copies of our CD to give out, and Duro starts whipping his at this frat boy like they were Frisbees. Never got one near the kid, but he buried the corner of one in the forehead of a sixteen-year-old girl, knocking her out cold and sending her to the emergency room for thirty-seven st.i.tches.

There were the expected public apologies, of course, but that was the beginning of the end for Gett Bust'N. We finally found out where Duro's cat went when the bus driver noticed an unpleasant odor while we were stopped at a rest area in West Virginia: Duro had crafted a little crown of thorns for the kitty and crucified it on the transaxle. After that, Eduardo s.h.i.+pped Duro off to the bughouse for an extended stay (last I heard, he had been released and is now working as a counselor at a summer camp in Iowa, teaching music to blind kids). Funny thing is, I didn't know he had a cat in the first place.

Our video dropped off TRL like a stone (rumor had it that we had actually been banned for life from MTV, although they denied it) and as far as I know, the single never received any radio play.

Eduardo started booking us into malls again, since we couldn't get any of those sweet gigs opening for Britney Spears or Mandy Moore. Truth is, we couldn't get a real gig at all we did one show opening for a band called Rotten Astronaut, but the lead singer (this really hot chick who looked like Dana Scully on The X-Files) had booked us as a joke and just tormented the h.e.l.l out of us, making fun of our clothes, our dancing, everything. We were laughed offstage like a bunch of chumps.

It was starting to get really G.o.dd.a.m.n depressing. Eduardo thought if we rushed a new alb.u.m out, tried to re-invent ourselves without the blemish Duro's freakout had created, we might have a shot. The whole nightmare had taken its toll, however: Angel had gone all spiritual and embraced some religion I'd never heard of and Grant was making serious remarks about heading back to his rockabilly roots. I was a little uninspired myself, but Chad's enthusiasm for the idea carried the rest of us, and within two months we had recorded Giv'n Up the Goody-Good. The cover featured a picture of the band walking down from Heaven on a silver ramp (Angel's idea), and Eduardo made me dye my hair purple for this one.

We hit the road again, headed for our first gig: Fayette Mall in Lexington, Kentucky. We arrived the night before the show and went out to a bar to drink a toast to our big "comeback" (since we had never amounted to a d.a.m.n thing, though, I wasn't sure what we were coming back to). Unfortunately, Trouble faithful traveling companion of Gett Bust'N was just around the corner, and this time, I started it.

I got shot down by a chick with thick ankles. I mean, nowadays, thick ankles are fine by me, but back then I was used to the parade of tender, lean girlies that had made themselves so readily available to me, and this chubby, middle-aged souse blowing me off sent me into a spiral of bitter depression. I switched from beer to scotch and before anybody knew what was happening, I was in my cups and trying to pick a fight with a big guy at the bar. This proved to be an especially bad idea, considering that the big guy in question was Kentucky's favorite son, Billy Ray Cyrus, of "Achy Breaky Heart" fame. A word of advice: if you meet the guy, do not insult the mullet. That good ol' boy kicked the ever-loving s.h.i.+t out of me and left me lying in the parking lot atop a pile of my own teeth.

But the show must go on, right? We went onstage at the mall the following afternoon, greeted by raucous cheering. Due to my extensive facial injuries, I could only mumble along and shuffle painfully through the dance steps, but we ably performed three numbers before the show was rather savagely interrupted.

As usual, Eduardo was grinning at us from his perch off-stage. I think Grant was the first to notice the guy moving in, but in any case, I turned to shoot a thumbs-up at Eduardo just as he was jumped by a half-naked man. The two went a.s.s-over-teakettle into the audience, sending girls screaming in every direction. The attacker was biting and clawing at Eduardo like an animal as we scrambled from the stage and tried to intervene. Grant finally got a chokehold on him and yanked him off, but the psycho came away with a mouthful of Eduardo's face in the process.

That was when I got my first good look at the man: greasy, stringy hair hanging over his wild eyes, blood running down his chin and neck to pool in the puckered dimples of the ma.s.sive, half-moon scar that engulfed the right side of his torso. You're probably way ahead of me on this one it was Jip Henningson, of course, former lead singer of Lonely Bull. I've seen plenty of them on the Discovery Channel, but seeing the results of a shark bite right there in front of you well, I haven't gone swimming since. As the cops dragged Jip away, he screamed over and over that Eduardo "tasted like weasel."

And that was the end of it. When he got out of the hospital, Eduardo retired from the music biz and moved to Italy with Mu'nche'e. The rest of us drifted apart soon after that; Angel took off for Sri Lanka or some d.a.m.n place, Grant made good on his threats and started a rockabilly band that I hear is big in j.a.pan now, and Chad became a model (your magazine actually ran a photo of him in a feature on the new spring line from Tommy Hilfiger).

Me? Inspired by Donnie and Marky-Mark, I tried my hand at the acting thing, but didn't have much success. Made it into a couple direct-to-video flicks and a Sci-Fi Channel Original Movie, but n.o.body paid any attention. Now I work the night s.h.i.+ft stocking shelves at the largest bookstore in New Mexico. I always wonder how things would've gone if somebody other than Duro had been chosen for the group, but you know what they say about hindsight. Anyway, my mom's glad I live nearby.

Yours, David "Jester" Andrews Albuquerque, NM I wrote All the Freaky Live Things with the hope of selling it to BOY'S LIFE magazine. After they rejected the story, I realized that the two main characters are completely incompetent - not exactly Scouting material - and it was no wonder BL didn't want it. I rewrote it, made the fellas slightly older, added a shapely young lady to the mix, and sold it to b.u.t.tMAN magazine. I've always kind of liked that original version, though, and that's why it's here.

ALL THE FREAKY LIVE THINGS.

There was a kind of exaggerated silence when Wes fell off the cliff, as if the entire forest held its breath for a moment. Then I heard him cras.h.i.+ng through the underbrush, twigs snapping beneath his tumbling body. I just stood there in the dark, frozen, until the racket died down. For some reason the only thing I could think of was how we'd probably end up on one of those reality TV shows you know, Incredible Rescues! (or worse yet, Incredibly Dumb Kids!).

When I ran to the edge and played my flashlight around, I saw that the cliff only dropped off for a few feet, then sloped down to where Wes was hung up on part of an old barbed wire fence. Somehow, I managed to get to him without doing any damage to myself in the process. He wasn't hurt just a few sc.r.a.pes and scratches but he sure was mad.

We had decided to spend a couple nights in the woods after seeing some stuff about Bigfoot on an old TV show called In Search Of, hosted by Leonard Nimoy. New Mexico isn't exactly the heart of Bigfoot country there've only been a few sightings here but we figured if we didn't find Bigfoot, we'd at least turn up a Chupacabra or something. It took some doing, but we convinced Wes' dad to let us take the camping gear and the old pickup (Wes is sixteen and has his driver's license). After practically signing contracts for our moms promising we wouldn't do anything stupid (like fall off a cliff), we high-tailed it into the Jemez Mountains outside Albuquerque.

We parked the truck and packed into the woods, figuring that anyplace we could get to in a vehicle wasn't deep enough to put us near Bigfoot. I don't think either of us really believed we'd see or cared that much about seeing the mythical hairy beast; we were just excited about being on our first parent-free camping trip. After a couple hours, we found a small clearing not far from the stream and set up our tent. We ate a dinner of beef jerky and trail mix, listening to the water rush by and feeling like men of the world.

As the evening wore on, Wes found new and varied ways of injuring himself he somehow managed to cut his knee breaking a piece of firewood over it, then burned himself trying to see the wound by the firelight. Jumping back in pain, he tripped over his pack and fell on the tent, tearing it down and sc.r.a.ping his elbow in the process. It was like camping with Jerry Lewis. The darkness made it a tough job, but we got the tent back up, even though it was obvious it would never be the same.

I'll tell you something and why I never noticed this on earlier camping trips is beyond me once it gets dark, you hear some crazy sounds coming out of the woods.

"I think we should investigate," Wes suggested.