A Very JCM Covid-Halloween Election

 "There is no gravity..."

Oh Jesus, fuck, I'm in bed and I can't move and somebody has turned the calendar to November and wrote, "This is You," in cursive on November 2nd which means its Monday, two days after Halloween, and one before the election. What happened between Devil's Night and today? I hear the door slam and I nearly fall trying to catch whoever it is but they are gone (Todash?) and there is a box at the Sports Desk, no note, so I grab the fucker, check on the cats (sleeping; dosed), and head back to the bedroom/National Affairs Desk where I nearly brain myself again but there is no gravity and I don't. I tear open the box and it has my notebook and a voice recorder. I take a sip from a four day old non-alcoholic beer and hit "Play".

   "There is no gravity," a voice starts and I click "Stop" because its all coming back to me and my hands are shaking, knowing what's next. So, let's go back to the past. The notebook helps.

Devil's Night 2020 in Zombietown Detroit, MI and I park the Silver Hornet and walk to PJ's Lager House where I am to meet the band for band practice. The Covid pandemic has not been kind to the Lager House so we wanted to support local businesses. In September there was a Covid scare there and at the beginning of October there was a Covid scare there. They are apparently all clear now. The gang is out front smoking, even bass player Vinnie, who is always late. Its the Original Four, -jr, Vinnie, Elizabeth First, and myself. Time to rock and roll. We all mask up, except for -jr, and enter. Immediately, we are stopped.

   "Sir, you need to wear a mask," the bartender says to -jr, who is already drunk. He leans to me and asks in a whisper, "What the fuck is she talking about, man? Masks? What are we, common criminals?" I can only look at my shoes.

   "Nope. Fuck it," he says to the staff and the five people at the bar start to stare. Vinnie, also buzzed, attempts to negotiate with them.

   "Are you prepared to go to court?" was all he could think of.

   "Listen guys. You're the JCM right? You've played here. You made The Imaginatron tolerable remember? I'm just trying to do..."

   "Fuck you pal," -jr shouts and storms out.

   "I have an extra mask in my car. Just grab it. The window's probably already broken," E First to the rescue.

   "Every car's window is broken Casey. Which one's yours?"

   "The one that says 'Let's Rock'."

   "You mean no 'Pussy Wagon'?"

-jr seems to have given up and is already driving away after changing into his Hulk Hogan costume; an extended cameo. We head back inside and see Vinnie sitting at a table in his fashionable Adidas face mask. Me and E First go to join him but are stopped again.

   "We need your names and phone numbers."

   "Jesus man, we just want to drink cool drink. Well they do, I'm four months sober," I plead, tears running down my face. Why? The extra hassle, or the four months? We finally are allowed to sit down after giving them bogus numbers and names.

   "I should just have it tattooed on me," I rationalize.

   "Metro, you are such a gas."

   "What number did you give them?" Vinnie asks, "I always just give them Governor Whitmer's office line."

   "Oh shit, that's brilliant. What is it?" I ask.

   "I have it memorized. 517-335-7858."

   "Wait, my pen ran out. What was it?"

   "517-335-7858."

   "Still no good. E First take the number down," I suggest.

   "What's the number?" E First.

   "517-335-7858," Vinnie.

   "I had no idea you had to do this now. It has to be hell for the service staff trying to keep track of everything in addition to annoyed customers. So many questions," I say to the table.

   "Yeah, its actually supposed to start Monday. I got a text from some judges about it," E First offers up her phone. Mistake Numero Uno. I verify her yarn and reply for her. She'll never hear from them again.

The first, and only, order of business was to decide who to vote for [Redacted], and what note to leave in our ballot envelopes. One of us had read a heartwarming story about how the voting volunteers love to find letters of thanks.

   "I'm out," Vinnie says, out of nowhere, and he leaves.

   "Oh good god man, how did we ever get anything done?" I whine, Deastro-Mode Level 10, and E First and I write our letters to the volunteers, "Eat Shot" and "Free South Africa You Dumb Son of a Bitch".

   "What did you mean by Deastro level whining?" she asks and a chill runs over me because I thought I was just thinking it, not speaking.

   "Oh its just beating this local dead horse Deastro guy, Chabot. Typical Detroit story. He gets a huge push, the next big thing, etc. and of course nothing comes of it and he is relegated to becoming deranged doing nothing but begging and complaining. Here are a few examples."

  "Boring. So what are you going to be for Halloween?" she asks.

   "I dunno. I was thinking of not being anybody this year. Its just how I feel. Maybe I should just be myself this year," I am whining now. Been reading too much Deastro...

   "I'm going to New Orleans for Halloween this year. You in?" E First asks as I try to remember if there was a hurricane there not too long ago. Could it still be there?

   "You betcha, but I have to be back Saturday night to pass out candy in my local rock star costume. I'll just go as Jack White. You should go as Amy Coney Barrett; really start some shit, maybe get some free drinks from the Waterheads. This means I'll have to book a return flight. I assume we'll be taking the Night Train down there. You have the stuff right?"

   "You betcha," she replies and passes me the envelope, "Put it under the tongue. 3-2-1..."

   "Wait! What's the safe word?" I cry as we both start to disappear, becoming tranny-parent.

   "I dunno. Use this," she replies and hands me a piece of paper that says "517-335-7858".

   "You know I hate travelling Todash; the darkness, the screaming."

   "I know. Just remember, there is no gravity, the earth just sucks. Concentrate on the Inn at St. John's, no St. Peter's. See you there," and she's off. Before I follow I save some shots from the Lager House including the vintage sale.

Oh shit, no mask dude on the left? Too late now. On my way, thank god. Support local businesses before they disappear too.

I stop in 2014 and book a flight back to Detroit for October 31st, 2020 and then cruise to the Inn at St. Pete's in New Orleans, year 2020. The Todash trip has made me feel years younger, refreshed, but hung over as I was a heavy boozer in 2014 and the shock of 2020's lack of alcohol is a gut punch. I shake off the DT's (ho ho ho) and meet up with 2020 E First at the hotel where Johnny Thunders died and I realize that I am fluctuating between 2014 and 2020 Bryan. The meeting is brief. We were both wearing the JCM hoodie. Did it even happen? There is something wrong here, everything all crossed up. We agree to split up.

I decide to check out the plantation scene while E First will handle everything else. Since the "medicine" is still coursing through my system I zap myself to plantation alley but my wires are still crossed, complete malfunction, and I arrive back in 2014 New Orleans. My phone starts blowing up (in 2014 I had a cell) and it is E First checking in pre-takeoff in Detroit. I try to tell her that I am already in New Orleans, and I just saw her at the hotel and we were both wearing the JCM hoodie. There is a serious time glitch happening. A real fuck up clearing the horizon.

   "Where are you Metro? I'm on the plane in my Justice Amy Coney Barrett costume," 2020 E First asks/states.

   "Who the fuck is Amy Coney Barrett?"

   "The new Supreme Court judge. We agreed that I should be her for Halloween to maximize discomfort."

   "No! Nix it. Nobody will know who that is. I don't know who that is," I am crying at this point, "517-335-7858, 517-335-7858, 517-335-7858," I repeat and she clicks off and I remember that I am in 2014 but it is too late. She is in the air and I am materializing near the plantation. The mood there is somber but I am grinning like a madman because the Todash dropped me off where they filmed "Django Unchained", specifically Big Daddy's Big House and Candyland.

The mis en scene is expectedly opulent and I wander the grounds until I get to the slave quarters, still preserved, where I am stopped because I am wearing my mask.

   "Sir, why are you wearing a mask?" security asks.

   "Name is Bryan Metro. Number is 517-335-7858. Trust me, in a few years, you'll know, dead man," I speak ominously with a wink.

I get a text from Vinnie saying he stashed a bunch of Biden/Harris stickers in my backpack for me to stick on the slave cabins. Who is this Harris I wonder. I come across this framed note of names and numbers. Could they have been taking everyone's names as far back as 1860? I ask the guard, who has been following me, what it means.

   "That is the list of slaves that were housed at this property along with their skills and price," he answers.

   "Ah, like a menu. Got it," I exclaim and ditch the fucker. The interiors of the slave quarters were off limits, obviously, so I trespassed like I give a fuck. Obviously.

I start to make a swift exit when I get a text from E First saying that before she left she dropped off the box of plastic dolls at the JCM Compound. I have no idea what she is talking about. I quickly Todash to check out a cemetery and come across the crypt of Marie Laveau. I quickly look it over, mutter "Bitch", and concentrate with all my reserves and jaunt back to Detroit, Oct. 31st, 2020.

Everything seems normal and I quickly decorate the grounds and hop into my costume, "Crabby Jack White".

Something still feels off and I start to panic and I swallow a handful of Ativan and that calms me down enough to break out "Cherry Red" and lay down some hot licks. Boom Boom Wahhhhh Wahhhhh Mama.

Even though it is in the 40's (the temperature, not the year....I think), I am burning up and it feels like I am covered in slime. I realize that I forgot to carve the pumpkins so I have to act fast and grab my signed Jack White Hamtramck Negro League softball bat for a quick game of whack and smash.

I am interrupted by E First, checking in from New Orleans.

   "Bry, I'm in my room. Its night, dark (???), and I have the Fear. I didn't go out, just took a bunch of Ativan. You sound stressed (I haven't said anything yet). Are we twinning right now?"

   "Hey wait, where is the Amy Coney Barrett costume?" I shout.

   "You told me to nix it, remember?" sounding confused.

   "What? I did? What are you supposed to be now?" I ask, also confused.

   "I don't know (giggle). Bye," Click.

I stumble across the box of dolls she referred to and I have a vague, fading, memory of outlining a script to be filmed where we (me as JW, her as ACB) rescue children from an abortion clinic. I quickly dial her back.

   "Why are these dolls covered in blood? I said we are saving them from the evils of Choice."

   "We are. We did. I got them from the dollar store like you asked. The blood is from the doctors I killed," she sounds distant.

   "What doctors? You were at a Dollar General."

   "The store was full of doctors. I killed them all, even the doctor running the register. I think I'm in trouble. I walked out with the dolls."

   "You really messed up, you know. Why are they in a Cuties box?" My nose starts to bleed.

   "The Cuties box was full of oranges. I grabbed it when I killed all the doctors at Kroger. I figured you could use it as a commentary on that Netflix show where the doctors diddle underage kids."

   "I don't think that's what that show is about," I try to correct.

   "Finger Lakes, man. Look it up."

   "Oh no, not QAnon shit man..."

   "Seneca. Tattoos. All of them doctors."

   "Who else have you told this to?" I ask, Jesus Christ.

   "Just you. I have to go. My room service is here and I'm sure the person delivering it is a doctor," she clicks off and I panic, blood gushing everywhere, my nose, my eyes, the dolls are filled with blood. They have to be destroyed so I toss them on the grill, add a mortar, and blast them.

Just then, I get a text from her again, this crazy person who used to play tambourine, saying, "Don't let anything happen to the Cuties. It really would hurt me to find out, all along, that you were a doctor too. It will hurt you too." I close my eyes, chew a few more Ativan, and try to convince myself this isn't happening, but this safe space is shattered when I realize that I actually Am a doctor! I vaporize back to 2014 in an attempt to escape, but wind up in New York, so I zoom back to 2020. Nothing I do will stop the bleeding.

I feel the bone structure in my body start to change and the blood is just pouring out of my eyes, mouth, even ass. I am slowly turning into Jason Von Bondie, my brain's attempt at the duality of man, a metaphor dipped in crimson. The change is near completion when I feel the "medicine" start to recede. There may be hope yet.

I shake off this terrible transformation and clean up the compound and wind down by filling treat bags full of candy for the kiddo's. The phone goes off, startling me, and I realize this is no dream but it could be because the year is 2020 and I don't have a cell phone, yet here is the one I must have brought back from 2014. I also don't have a way to end this post. I check the phone to make sure the number is not 517-335-7858. It isn't, so I answer it and it is -jr.

   "Too many Jap's in women's wrestling..." he starts and I hang up. I really have no way to end this post. I pray for New Orleans updates. All I can do is chew on a Laffy Taffy and wait. I don't have to wait long when the phone rings again, this time from Orleans Parish Criminal Court on Tulane which is impossible because it is Saturday. I cringe and answer.

   "Metro, I got nabbed. I'm at the courthouse."

   "Not possible. Its the weekend," I am at a loss.

   "Do you think it was the Cuties? I won't let them take me to Seneca. I heard one of the doctors here mention Seneca Lake. Band on the Run?"

   "Ah fuck, man. Its Saturday and besides, you were supposed to be dressed like a fucking judge! Wait! You flew out there, right? That means you still have your dose of "medicine". Take it now! Under the tongue, 3-2-1."

   "Great idea, ten four, 517-335-7858," she says, relived.

   "Take it and concentrate really hard. Get out of there and go to October 31st, 2020. Go now!"

The phone starts to shimmer in my hand, briefly disappearing, and then I lose the signal. There is a knock on the door and I jump up, ready to smother whoever it is with a rag of Von Bondie blood. It is just the first batch of trick or treater's, praise god. I shoot some Skittles at them through a blow gun and race outside to intercept any more wandering by.

Too much money was spent on candy but the kids don't seem to mind, the little bastards. I get a message from Vinnie who is out trick or treating by himself (40 years old). He sends a few pics of Halloween during the pandemic, man on the street-mode.

I have to admit that this set up is pretty rad. Alas, the holiday seems to be winding down so I go back inside the spinning JCMsTown Compound and change into my yoga gear (the t-shirt says, "My tits will be prominent"), and relax. I start to get lightheaded when

I close the notebook and shut off the voice recorder and make sure that it is still November 2nd ("This is You"). It explains absolutely nothing. There are no messages on the ghost phone so, while waiting for updates from anywhere, I head to the Sports Desk and fill out my ballot.

After changing the world it's back to the waiting game. I still have the last hit of acid from months ago but that can wait until Election Day, and 14 pages in, I am not finished yet. No need to get ahead of myself with silly politics. E First finally checks in after successfully escaping the authorities. She, however, confused herself, and teleported back to September 2018, the day of our final show, dressed as Sharon Tate pre-blood bath.

She appears to be passed out so I message her to get back to 2020, oh Jesus, enough already. I need more Halloween. I have completely forgotten what the message of this post was supposed to be; once again, just vague memories. The end is almost here. With that, the phone rings one last time. It is who I expected.

   "Metro, I'm back in New Orleans, 2020."

   "Is it Halloween where you are? I am on November 2nd," I am fading.

   "No, Day of the Dead I think, but decorations are still up. I realized I had to hit the streets to get a few more shots, er pics, or else no one will believe that we were in both New Orleans and Michigan on Halloween."

   "Not to mention in 2014, 2018, and 2020," I add, leaving it at that.

   "I left the Amy Coney Barrett costume in 2018 but did grab a blank sheet of paper on my way back. The streets are dead here; really eerie. The few people that were around I scared away when I screamed at them asking what was on the paper. You can always crop it to resemble the notepad from the hearings. I'm getting tired."

   "Me too. I'll do both. I'd photoshop something like 'Doff' or 'Fuck' on it but it works better simply blank. Make sure to save it so it can go into the JCM Museum along with my ashes, the DMA, and the Goldust costume. The museum exists, or it will. I saw it in Todash."

   "Will do. Here are a few extra New Orleans at night shots. One is a deserted balcony that is still decorated and the other is of a woman on the sidewalk. She was not homeless and she was crying. The election isn't even until Tuesday. She said her name was Ruth. I should have more pics this week. Just add them to the post later."

   "No problemo. One more thing..."

   "Wait," she interrupts, "Why are we even doing this post? Like, what's the point, the angle? How does it tie together?"

   "Just have fun," I begin.

I don't know how the conversation ends but I can sleep knowing what the main idea of this is, finally. It took only 18 pages to get there. Too often I get caught up in controversy and sensationalism and forget to just have fun. Forget the stress, the Fear, the complaints and complainers (even you, Deastro), and thinking that the guy behind you at the polls may have a Glock, grenade, or nothing at all. Just have fun. That, and be safe. Nah, scratch that last part. There is little fun in playing it safe; being smart maybe, but safe, not so much. Just have fun. I know it seems "slight" compared to previous posts, but that's how I decided how this post will end. Deal with it, rock and roll.

From the Iceman Commeth,

Dr. Bryan Metro

Author's Note-  This was a weird one to write. After the first few pages I was going to scrap the entire thing. Halfway through, I realized that it had no message (or ending), not that either are mandatory. I just wanted to hang out with some old friends that I don't see nearly enough these days and just have fun, along with dressing up, getting drunk (them, not me), a killing spree subplot, and a pinch of local scene fuckery. Yes, it kind of sucks not to be able to do all this in person. Okay, it really sucks. So, even if I have to go into the "snow globe" to do it, it ended up being worth it; to me at least, and hopefully you too Constant Readers. If not, then Eat Shot. Have fun at the polls. Don't kill each other. Beware the Doctors at all times. B.M.

The Honor Roll/Too Much Fun Club-

-jr- For the always underlying attitude

Vinnie- For the constant research and photos (It wouldn't let me underline him??!!)

E First- For the concept of this post and photos

Sebastian Owl- For the photos, patience, and the idea of me mutating into Jason Von Bondie

And everyone else, along with the Constant Readers. Thanks for reading. Mahalo! Bye.

Appendix-

*E First is still in New Orleans and still living it up and sending pics. Oh and the blank paper lives. It needs a name I think, and don't say Eat Shot.

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