‘We’ll have to remove his teeth,’ Al said.
Ed nodded.
‘You mean for DNA. Yeah, ever since Don Flacker set up Fuzzbox Baby some weird shit’s been happening round here.’
‘You’re fucking telling me some weird shit’s been happening,’ Al said, smacking his bottle of Becks down on the counter so it fizzed and frothed up over the side.
‘A Slice Of Ice used to be the magazine, we covered everything, heavy metal, rock.’
‘I know. Hey, do you think that’s what’s going on here?’ Al said, pointing at the frothing bottle, leaning and extending his tongue to lick a few drops of beer from the glass knob.
‘What?’
‘He’s fucking the editor.’
‘Nah.’
‘So how do you explain it that they fill their magazine with his articles and maybe one by another journalist?’ Al said.
‘I don’t know, but something funny’s going on, they don’t seem to like what anyone else writes, that ain’t the way to run a magazine. I mean look at this fucking front cover, Do You Feel Like We Do. What kind of a shit headline is that? They’re obsessed by Peter Frampton.’
‘Champagne for breakfast and a Sherman in my hand, Peached Up, Peached Ale, never fails,’ Al said.
Ed stared again at the offensive cover.
‘And a picture of him on it in his shades,’ he said.
‘He’s hiding something, he’s never seen without them.’
That was when it occurred to them. Al looked at Ed and in Ed’s eyes he saw the same thought take shape. They were talking about Micky Wah-Wah, and a more apt Christian name had never existed. His voice sounded like a Wah-Wah pedal. Al and Ed were confounded by the fact that Fuzzbox Baby only ever seemed to publish Micky Wah-Wah.
‘Besides,’ Al said, ‘how come he can interview all these rock stars in a week?’
‘He’s a clone,’ Ed said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Removing his teeth won’t prove anything, he may have doppelgangers.’
Al scraped his chin and sipped his beer, casting a long glace into the distance.
‘Then we hire a lab and experiment on him,’ he said.
‘Yeah. I’m sick of seeing him standing there trying to look hip in his sunglasses.’
And so Al and Ed of A Slice Of Ice fame set off that afternoon and hired a lab.
*
Micky Wah-Wah was leaving a gig by the Concrete Bollocks, a neo punk band. He was covered in phlegm and removed his shades in a darkened alley when he was jumped by Al as Ed punched him in the face. And as he hit him he stopped short.
‘Shit, Al, look.’
Micky had fallen to the ground and stared up at them with steel eyes.
‘He’s an android,’ Al said.
‘So, Don Flacker has created this machine to write articles and boost his magazine.’
They bundled him into the back of their black Jeep and drove way.
In the lab, they strapped him into a chair and Ed jammed a scalpel in his ear.
‘Tell us who you are,’ he said.
‘Shit, man, are you fucking nuts?’ Micky said.
‘No, we know you’re an android, we want to know who made you’, Al said, leaning over him and peering into his steel eyes.
‘Get me out of his chair,’ Micky said, wrestling with the leather binds.
‘Your eyes are made of metal,’ Ed said.
‘They’re contact lenses,’ Micky said.
Ed prodded him with a finger.
‘Ah, look at his little face.’
‘It’s pliers time,’ Al said.
He forced his mouth open and removed a tooth. He held it up to the light and examined it.
‘This may just tell us everything we need to know,’ he said.
Micky sat there with disbelief fighting anger on his face, blood pouring from his mouth.
‘Now what is this between you and Don Flacker?’
‘I work for him.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘You guys are fucking insane, I work hard, that’s all.’
Al looked at Ed and they nodded.
‘Subterfuge,’ Al said.
‘We have a cure for that,’ Ed said.
‘Is this about money?’ Micky said.
‘No, it’s about stopping an alien invasion,’ Ed said, as Al reached for the pliers and removed another tooth.
Micky started screaming and he kicked out at them but it was too late. Ed stuck the scalpel so deep into his ear that he punctured his brain.
They stood and watched Micky bleed to death.
The next morning, Don Flacker engaged in the redundant exercise of leaving a large sum of money to his illegitimate son.
Many years ago, wearing a pink Miami shirt, he’d impregnated Sasha Hogg, his co-editor and concubine, as Peter Frampton sang Do You Feel Like We Do.
GOODBYE TO WAH-WAH - RICHARD GODWIN
‘We’ll have to remove his teeth,’ Al said.
Ed nodded.
‘You mean for DNA. Yeah, ever since Don Flacker set up Fuzzbox Baby some weird shit’s been happening round here.’
‘You’re fucking telling me some weird shit’s been happening,’ Al said, smacking his bottle of Becks down on the counter so it fizzed and frothed up over the side.
‘A Slice Of Ice used to be the magazine, we covered everything, heavy metal, rock.’
‘I know. Hey, do you think that’s what’s going on here?’ Al said pointing at the frothing bottle, leaning and extending his tongue to lick a few drops of beer from the glass knob.
‘What?’
‘He’s fucking the editor.’
‘Nah.’
‘So how do you explain it that they fill their magazine with his articles and maybe one by another journalist?’ Al said.
‘I don’t know, but something funny’s going on, they don’t seem to like what anyone else writes, that ain’t the way to run a magazine. I mean look at this fucking front cover, Do You Feel Like We Do. What kind of a shit headline is that? They’re obsessed by Peter Frampton.’
Ed stared again at the offensive cover.
‘And a picture of him on it in his shades.’
‘He’s hiding something, he’s never seen without them.’
That was when it occurred to them. Al looked at Ed and in Ed’s eyes he saw the same thought take shape.
They were talking about Micky Wah-Wah, and a more apt Christian name had never existed. His voice sounded like a Wah-Wah pedal. Al and Ed were confounded by the fact that Fuzzbox Baby only ever seemed to publish Micky Wah-Wah.
‘Besides,’ Al said, ‘how come he can interview all these rock stars in a week?’
‘He’s a clone,’ Ed said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Removing his teeth won’t prove anything, he may have doppelgangers.’
Al scraped his chin and sipped his beer, casting a long glace into the distance.
‘Then we hire a lab and experiment on him,’ he said.
‘Yeah. I’m sick of seeing him standing there trying to look hip in his sunglasses.’
And so Al and Ed of A Slice Of Ice fame set off that afternoon and hired a lab.
*
Micky Wah-Wah was leaving a gig by the Concrete Bollocks, a neo punk band. He was covered in phlegm and removed his shades in a darkened alley when he was jumped by Al as Ed punched him in the face. And as he hit him he stopped short.
‘Shit, Al, look.’
Micky had fallen to the ground and stared up at them with steel eyes.
‘He’s an android,’ Al said.
‘So, Don Flacker has created this machine to write articles and boost his magazine.’
They bundled him into the back of their black Jeep and drove way.
In the lab, they strapped him into a chair and Ed jammed a scalpel in his ear.
‘Tell us who you are,’ he said.
‘Shit, man, are you fucking nuts?’ Micky said.
‘No, we know you’re an android, we want to know who made you,’ Al said, leaning over him and peering into his steel eyes.
‘Get me out of his chair,’ Micky said, wrestling with the leather binds.
‘Your eyes are made of metal,’ Ed said.
‘They’re contact lenses,’ Micky said.
Ed prodded him with a finger.
‘Ah, look at his little face.’
‘It’s pliers time,’ Al said.
He forced his mouth open and removed a tooth. He held it up to the light and examined it.
‘This may just tell us everything we need to know,’ he said.
Micky sat there with disbelief fighting anger on his face.
‘Now what is this between you and Don Flacker?’
‘I work for him.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘You guys are fucking insane. I work hard, that’s all.’
Al looked at Ed and they nodded.
‘Subterfuge,’ Al said.
‘We have a cure for that,’ Ed said.
‘Is this about money?’ Micky said.
‘No, it’s about stopping an alien invasion’, Ed said, as Al reached for the pliers and removed another tooth.
Micky started screaming and he kicked out at them as Ed stuck the scalpel in his ear.
As he did, Micky’s mouth opened and a series of strange syllables came out.
‘What’s he saying?’ Ed said.
‘Sounds like New Alberta bubble me.’
‘No, it’s New Alberta double me.’
‘It must be his planet,’ Al said, ‘he’s calling for back up.’
Just then the door swung open and Micky Wah-Wah walked in. Al tipped Becks all over Micky’s head and the man in the seat began to hiss and dissolve as his double walked towards them with mischief in his sunglasses.
‘Hey, he’s allergic to Becks,’ Al said.
As Peter Frampton’s Do You Feel Like We Do blasted out, a parade of cloned Micky Wah-Wah’s stumbled through the door. Ed reached for a bottle of Becks and together he and Al doused the alien invaders and spurious usurpers of music magazines as they fought their revulsion at hearing ‘Champagne for breakfast and a Sherman in my hand, Peached Up, Peached Ale, never fails’ sung at them in a strange intonation.
The next morning, Fuzzbox Baby did not exist.
‘Not even a mention of it in Wikipedia,’ Al said.
‘Never trust a man with a name that sounds like a musical instrument,’ Ed said.
They celebrated by kicking Mickey’s Wah-Wah’s teeth around what once had been the headquarters of the alien magazine.
