The Iommi Job (Part 4)

The clock was ticking. Curtis Merriweather knew it. The Boys called. They wanted to know what was happening with their investment. That’s what they called it—“our investment.” Paulie laid it out for him: Come back in 72 hours with Iommi’s fingertips or don’t come back at all.

Madame Quinault, the psychic palm reader, had sent Curtis to see a man named Harrington. Harrington worked for ULTRA. Curtis met him at the Frolic Room. It was one of Bukowski’s old Hollywood booze trenches. Shoebox-sized. Sinatra on the jukebox. Harrington was drunk and borderline surly, but eventually it came out that he was disgruntled. Some kind of ancient beef with the bosses at ULTRA. Curtis bought him a shot: Maker’s to the face. Curtis pressed him. Curtis cajoled him. Curtis milked him for intel. Curtis bought him another Maker’s. Sinatra segued into Roy Orbison. Roy segued into Iggy. Iggy segued into “Killing Yourself To Live.” The song jarred something loose. Finally, Harrington spat it out.

“You’ll never find them fingertips. They’re in cold storage out in Van Nuys. A fucking warehouse full of fur fucking coats. But here’s the kicker: They’re supposedly in the pocket of one of the coats. We’ve had two dozen guys turning out pockets for days now.”

“How many coats?” Curtis asked.

“Thousands. I mean fucking thousands. Maybe 40, 50K.  Too many to count.”

“What’s security like?”

“A pair of armed guards at the gate, at least one on every entrance, plus who-knows-how-many inside. Cameras fucking everywhere, too. You’ll never get in, not in a million fucking years. And even if you did, it’d take you twice that long to find the motherfuckers.”

Harrington blinked. Curtis bought him another Maker’s and left.  He went out to the rental and cranked the AC. He turned it over and over in his head: A warehouse full of armed goons, 50,000 fur coats and two dozen hired hands fishing through pockets. How much could these fucking fingertips be worth, anyway?  No. There had to be something else. Either that or Harrington was full of shit.

Curtis walked back into the Frolic Room. Just as Harrington tipped back another Maker’s, Curtis smashed it into his face. The impact was audible. Blood spritzed. Curtis grabbed Harrington by the throat. His front teeth were chipped.

“What the fuaaaahhh!”

Curtis reached into Harrington’s jacket pocket and pulled out two plastic baggies. One was half full of cocaine. The other contained four shriveled brown chunks. At first Curtis thought they were mushrooms. They were leather fucking fingertips. 

Curtis released Harrington’s neck and dropped him to the floor. Harrington moaned like a dying animal.  Curtis slipped the bartender a C-note and put a finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, boss.”

Curtis goosed the rental and drove out to Silverlake. He pulled into a parking lot on Glendale Boulevard. He called his mother. She went on and on and on about the neighbors and their shitty dog who kept her up all night with the barking. She didn’t actually use the word shitty. She complained about Father Tom at Our Lady Of Good Counsel. He smelled like booze, she said. She was afraid he might be a pederast. Curtis was sure she’d learned that word from the television. She would never just come out and say Father Tom was a drunk who liked to fuck little boys in the mouth. Everyone was up to something. She just knew the mechanic was overcharging her. The mailman was delivering her social security checks late on purpose. She suspected. She speculated. She inferred. After 20 minutes, Curtis couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mom. Where’s my Slayer record?”

“Your what?”

“Mom.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mom. Did you sell something of mine?  At the record store?”

“Curtis. You know I sold my records years ago.”

“Mom. My records. My records.”

“Curtis, I…”

“Never mind.”

He hung up. He walked into Rockaway Records and scanned the wall above the counter. There it was: dead center. Between a copy of the Beatles Butcher cover and the second Sir Lord Baltimore album. Reign In Blood, original pressing, mint condition, 60 bucks. He threw three twenties down on the counter.

He flew back to Chicago that night. The Boys shook his hand and gave him a suitcase with 20 grand in it. 

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

The Iommi Job (Part 3)

I looked at a million photographs because this is the dot theory of reality, that all knowledge is available if you connect the dots.

—Don DeLillo, Underworld

You wake up in the middle of the night again and there it is. Staring you right in the face like you’d ordered it off a menu. Summoned from the ether. Its intent is as clear as its origin is clouded. It gives you the heebie jeebies. It gives you the fear, the kind that snakes its way into your bloodstream like an incurable disease.

But what does it mean?

This is the question that Curtis Merriweather asked himself at 2:30 AM as he sat awake in bed, staring at a blank television screen in a shitty motel room on Santa Monica Boulevard. The Holloway it was called, like that girl who disappeared in Aruba a few years back. Street level digs gave Curtis a front-row seat for the show that never ends: the Great Hollywood Hooker Revue.

“Hey, daddy…” “Hey, sugar…” “Hey bay-bee…”

Every two out of three with prominent Adam’s apples. This was technically still Boys’ Town, so the “ladies” worked both sides of the street.

“Giiiiirrrrlll…look at that fine piece uh meat!” 

“Uh-uh, bitch. I saw him first!”

What Curtis saw was something else entirely. A vision? A dream? An epiphany?

It was Tony Iommi talking to him. Out loud. Not a disembodied voice from the Great Beyond so much as Tony Fucking Iommi, in the room, huffing down a duke and offering what seemed like advice. This is clean-shaven Iommi in the sky-blue shirt with the white fringe from the ’74 California Jam. And he’s saying… he’s saying this:

Blah, blah, blah, Birmingham accent, “fooking this up proper, lad,” blah, blah, blah, “tryin’ teh find muh fingers?” blah, blah, blah… “Go see Madame Quinault.”

Curtis remembered her. Or her sign, anyway: Madame Quinault’s Palm Reading & Tarot. He remembered it mostly because it was the only sign on the block that wasn’t neon. And all of those psychic/tarot/palm-reading joints had neon signs. Not Madame Quinault. She was an iconoclast.

The next day, Curtis did some checking up on her. Born Maria Alyokhina in Kiev, 1940-something, parents unknown or undocumented, files missing or destroyed. Arrived in Los Angeles shortly after the War. Been working her crystal-ball routine for the rich and gullible since ’69—at this location, anyway. She opened for business whenever she felt like it, and never before the crack of noon.

Curtis waited in the rental and cranked the AC. The sidewalks were a minefield of calamity and vice. Broken glass. Spent rubbers. Cigarette butts everywhere.

When she finally turned up, she was better looking than he’d expected. Less babushka and more Adrienne Barbeau.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

Curtis smiled. “I’d rather not.”

“How can I help you if I don’t know anything about you?”

“Tony Iommi sent me. Sort of. I’m looking for his fingertips.”

“The Englishman? Tony the Terrible?”

“Tony the… you know him?”

“We dated for a few months in ’72. Brown Sabbath was in town making a record.”

Curtis smirked. “Black Sabbath. You seen him lately?”

“It’s been decades, honey.”

“He didn’t leave any, uh, prosthesis with you or anything like that?”

“Can’t help you there. But I think I know someone who can.”

This bullshit originally appeared in the November 2012 issue of Decibel magazine. 

The Iommi Job (Part 2)

Bel Air, high fucking noon. The manse at 773 Stradella Road had seen better days. Sabbath practically destroyed the place in a blizzard of cocaine and vodka back in ’72, but that’s not where its current sorry state derived from. Several years after Sabbath cleared out, TV miniseries queen and former Charlie’s Angel star Jaclyn Smith bought the joint and installed a heart-shaped swimming pool allegedly modeled after the curve of her own ass. After becoming even more insanely wealthy thanks to her gaudy women’s apparel and home furnishings empires, she upped sticks and sold the pad to a shadowy investment group called ULTRA, LLC.

Curtis Merriweather had yet to determine who was behind ULTRA. But they had let the place go to seed: Broken windows, bricks stacked in the front yard, about three years’ worth of leaves clogging the drains of Jackie’s ass-shaped pool. Curtis peered through a broken window and saw the usual detritus: broken furniture, drop-cloths, spider webs galore. The chances of Tony Iommi’s missing leather fingertips being somewhere inside 40 years after the fact? Curtis figured them at about zero. But the Boys seemed pretty sure of themselves. And they were paying the tab for this goose chase.

Curtis was just about to B&E the place when he heard a voice behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing, guy?”

Curtis fingered the grip of the .38 snubnose tucked into his belt.

“I wouldn’t.”

Curtis turned slowly and found himself staring down the barrel of a sawed-off. Behind it was an incredibly obese man with a Hitler mustache, a bowler hat, and a shit-eating grin. He must’ve weighed 400 pounds, easy. 

Curtis smiled sheepishly. “I’m with the alarm company. Must’ve been a rat that tripped the wires or something. You haven’t seen anyone else up here today, have you?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” the fat man snapped. “I can smell a lie like I can smell the dog shit on your shoe.”

Curtis looked down. He had totally stepped in dog shit.

“Let’s try again,” the fat man said. “Next wrong answer costs you a kneecap. What are you doing here?”

“Okay, you got me.” Curtis shot him another patently disingenuous smile, ten times worse than Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. “A friend of mine left something in this house a while back. He sent me up here to see if I could find it.”

“And what might that be?”

“A desk clock. Some kind of family heirloom. You seen anything like that inside?”

“Get dorked, guy.  Put your hands over your head, stroll out of here real slow, and I’ll pretend this didn’t happen. But if I see you or smell your dog shit shoes up here again, I’ll shoot your dick off and feed it to the coyotes.”

Curtis followed the fat man’s instructions. As he passed within kicking distance of that sprawling front-bum, Curtis had the urge to spin around and pistol-whip his oppressor right in the stupid mustache. He could almost see the instantly cleft lip, the smashed teeth, and all that righteous blood. But he figured—correctly—that he probably wasn’t fast enough to pull off that kind of maneuver without taking a load of birdshot to the face.

Curtis knew he’d have to hatch a plan. He climbed back into his rental, goosed the engine, and waved. Fatso lowered the sawed-off and flipped Curtis the bird. 

He knew the Boys would expect a status update soon. He wasn’t sure what he’d tell them—about the house, about Iommi’s fingertips, about any of it. But he knew this: The fat man worked for ULTRA. 

This bullshit originally appeared in the October 2012 issue of Decibel magazine. 

The Iommi Job (Part 1)

They sent him to Los Angeles to steal Tony Iommi’s fingertips.

It was an earn-your-stripes type of deal. Word was, Iommi had left a set of his custom leather fingertips at the house in Bel Air where Black Sabbath had stayed during the recording of Vol. 4. The Boys said: Deliver the fingertips to us and you’re in. A made man, more or less: A steady gig plus a nice percentage of the slot machines operation. They gave him a round-trip plane ticket and a grand in cash for expenses. Accomplish the task and Curtis Merriweather could look forward to a silver future in the organization.

The Boys were not exactly Johnny-come-latelys on the Iommi Job. Their interest went back to the early ’70s, when Mickey Cohen was still nominally in charge. Cohen was their patron saint and founding member. He’d been tight with Don Arden, Sabbath’s manager and Sharon Osbourne’s estranged father. Arden had cut Cohen in for a percentage of Sabbath’s earnings back in those days. And not just Sabbath’s: ELO’s as well. Word was both Arden and Cohen bought new houses off of “Don’t Bring Me Down.”  The reason Arden made the deal was never explained. The Boys never explained anything. They just gave orders. His orders: Pinch Iommi’s fingertips, STAT.

But first Curtis had a stop to make.

Cut to: 1621 N. Hoover, a cul-de-sac in Hollywood. Curtis parked the rental up the street and inhaled a double-double from In N’ Out.  The zit-faced burnout in charge of wax paper had accidentally wrapped it in the regular cheeseburger packaging. Thus, Curtis’ hidden Christian missive of the day was Revelation 3:20 instead of Nahum 1:7. He knew the passage by heart.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock: If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.

Curtis interpreted the passage differently than the congregation at Our Mother Of Good Counsel just up the street. It wasn’t God knocking. It was opportunity. And he who heeds the knock of opportunity is a wise man indeed. This, Curtis was convinced, was the prevailing narrative of his life.

He checked the rearview. She was just leaving the house: Janice Merriweather, DOB 7/13/55. She was probably headed to church right now. Curtis watched her ease into her ’83 Pontiac Parisienne and drive off.

He picked the lock in under a minute. He walked into his old bedroom and grid-searched it, up-down-left-right. At the back of the closet, he hit what he thought would surely be the jackpot: Three boxes of LPs in alphabetical order: A-J, K-Q, R-Z. He tore the lid off of R-Z and went directly to S. There they were, in chronological order: Show No Mercy, Haunting The Chapel, Hell Awaits, South Of Heaven, Seasons In The Abyss…wait… just wait a minute. WAIT.  Where the shit was Reign In Blood?

Curtis flipped through the rest of R-Z. No dice. Same deal for A-J and K-Q. The fucker was gone. But where? Did it get mixed up with Janice’s Engelbert Humperdinck LPs? He had a flash: Janice had hauled the Humperdinck records to St. Vincent de Paul back in ’95, when she finally switched over to CDs. Curtis had moved out by then. Fuuuuck. Did his pristine copy of Reign die an agonizing death in the 4-for-a-buck bin surrounded by musty, ring-worn copies of Hotel California and Frampton Comes Alive?

Curtis went back to his rental and cranked the AC. He saw Janice pull around the corner and into the driveway. He wanted to confront her about the missing record, but he didn’t think he could withstand an actual conversation with his mother. Besides, he had a set of leather fingertips to hunt down. Reign In Blood would have to wait. 

This bullshit originally appeared in the September 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

Wimmen In Metal

We here at Decibel magazine were hoping to bring you an in-depth interview with Sharon Osbourne for our “Women In Metal” issue. Unfortunately, she was busy hosting the latest incarnation of The Gong Show with Howard Stern and that ass-clown from St. Elsewhere, so the scheduling didn’t work out. But Sharon was kind enough to let us know—through her assistant, Hedwig—that she had been planning to revive Ozzfest this summer with a second stage featuring all-female and female-fronted acts. In fact, she told Hedwig to forward us the notes she (Sharon) had made in preparation for the contract negotiations. At first we thought Hedwig had mistakenly sent us the wrong document. But then we decided that we didn’t give a shit.

From the desk of Sharon Osbourne

re: Wimmen for Ozzfest

1) Jada Pinkett Smith: Is her band still a thing?  Will hubby bankroll second stage if we make them headliner?

2) Runaways reunion: Major fucking coup.  Step 1, Talk to Joan: Will hubby bankroll second stage if we make them headliner? Wait, no hubby. Duh.  Brainstorm: Come on to her in attempt to lower the band’s fee?  Also, get Lita to join Ozzy onstage for “Close My Eyes Forever” during Ozzy’s encore. Don’t tell Joan.

3) The Donnas: Are they still a thing? Do any of them have husbands and/or boyfriends who could bankroll second stage?  Will any of them go in for a free nose job/tit job/liposuction on my new plastic-surgery reality show before the tour starts?  Remember: Cross-promotion! Branding! Fucking dollar signs everywhere! Can we get Red Bull involved?

4) Kat Von D:  Can we get her to lip-sync some Mötley Crüe songs or something?  If so, will they bankroll second stage?  Also: discuss possible onstage “wardrobe malfunctions” caught on camera for maximum publicity. Brainstorm: Possible lip-sync/”malfunction” duet with Bombshell McGee? And then Jesse James rides a motorcycle onstage like Rob Fucking Halford. GENIUS.

5) More fake tits. Obviously.

6) Lemmy says Bitch is back. I thought he meant me! Cheeky bastard.

7) Girlschool: Ozzy says they’re still a thing. Couldn’t fucking believe it. Have Hedwig scour Internet for recent photos. I bet they all look like proper slags these days. Maybe have them on plastic-surgery show instead of The Donnas? 

8) Wendy O. Williams hologram. Boo-ya! Coachella can lick my arse.

9) The Great Kat. Is she still a thing?  Fucking hell, I hope not.

10) 30 Seconds To Mars: No brainer, but maybe too expensive?  What about blackmail? Tell Hedwig to offer bounty for photos of Leto with possible boy toys.

11) If all else fails, let Kelly play second stage. Hire Cyndi Lauper to write new songs. (NO Kelly “originals.”) Pay her with the money we plan to screw Bill Ward out of.

This bullshit was originally published in the August 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

Apocalyptic Visions

If civilization falls apart like nearly all of us seem to think it will, only the uncivilized will survive.
- Jim Goad, “Taming The Wild Nugent,” April 23, 2012


Dearest Randy,

The end is near. I can see it. It’s written in the sky. The weather here in Nebraska—your true & rightful home—tells me everything I need to know. I can feel it. It’s in the air, like that song you used to listen to all the time when we were kids. You know, the one with the drum solo or whatever. God, you used to love that song. Do you still listen to it, I wonder?  If there’s anything I’ve learned in the long years we’ve been apart, it’s that sometimes songs can tell you the future if you listen close enough. And not just songs, Randy. Newspapers and the TV can give you glimpses of what’s to come if you know how to sift through the nonsense and look for the signs. The world around us is the same way. I often see things written in the birch trees near the old grain silo. Ripples in the lake whisper portents in my ear. The herons speak to me without ever opening their bills. We communicate, the birds and I, with our minds. Telepathy, Randy. Our old friend Mrs. Keating calls it “ESP.”

And you would not believe the things they tell me about death. Firestorms sent from heaven to burn us down. Big-breasted she-demons with pin teeth ready to sink poison into our very veins. Undead armies of teenagers with their heavy metal and their Internet phones and their erection pills riding a wave of pornography down Main Street. Right here in Lincoln! Sometimes I think those birds are crazy. I think they’re trying to confuse me. But then I think about the economy and the gays and that bulge in Pastor Titus’ crotch that seems to call me like a coyote at midnight and... oh, I don’t know, Randy!  I wish you were here to help me make sense of all this. You could meet the herons and they could tell you the things that they tell me and together we could make the necessary preparations.

Uncle Teddy thinks I’m going soft. He says there ain’t no such thing as birds that can talk to humans about Revelations and such. But he’s getting ready in his own way. Every time I peek into that old barn of his, I see more canned beans, more tuna fish, more cling peaches and fruit cocktails than last time. Sometimes he stays up all night butchering a deer he’s shot. He salts the meat and heat-seals it with this fancy new contraption he got at the auction a few months back. Into the freezer it goes, with all the rest. Right on top of my Klondike bars.

I want to tell you something else. Things here in Lincoln ain’t what they used to be. The latex factory shut down a few months back, and Ma Herring says she might not be able to keep the diner open past Christmas. Pastor Titus didn’t say it out loud, but I could tell by last Sunday’s sermon that the church is hurting for finances. Could you imagine if they had to close the church, Randy?  Last week I asked the herons if I could do anything about it. I know I’m just silly farm girl with no fund-raising talents to speak of, but if I can help Pastor Titus keep the church doors open for all us sinners, I’ll be doing God’s work, won’t I?  But the birds said there was nothing I could do. Do you know why, Randy?

Because Satan is coming, Randy. SATAN IS COMING. And we are truly powerless against his unholy wrath. I want you to remember that out there in Los Angeles, Randy. I want you to think about it when you listen to that song that I know you still listen to. “It” IS coming in the air, Randy. “It” has cloven hooves and a forked tongue and every word from its mouth spells S-A-T-A-N and certain death.

Gotta run now. Uncle Teddy wants me to milk Gladys before supper. If you have a chance, please send more of those nice grapefruits that Momma and I love so much. 

Love,

Carol Ann 


This bullshit originally appeared in the July 2012 issue of Decibel magazine. 

Astral Assassins

Rossignol’s curious, albeit simply titled book, the Origins of a World War, spoke in terms of secret treaties, drawn up between the Ambassadors from Plutonia and Desdinova the foreign minister. These treaties founded a secret science from the stars. Astronomy. The career of evil.

—Sandy Pearlman, Blue Öyster Cult’s Secret Treaties

To the endless soundtrack of Burzum’s Filosofem, Randy considered his fate. He’d been up all night reading conspiracy theories. Again. His latest was a scintillating thrift-store paperback entitled Satan’s Assassins. Its front and back covers touted its vast inner wealth: “Thoroughly documented! All fact! Earthshaking evidence for a bold new theory: that history’s most notorious slayers have been controlled by the Occult...the only book that dares to suggest that a power from beyond may be dictating the murders of our public figures... and offers history’s documents to prove it... by internationally known experts on the occult.”

Publication date: 1971. Dedication: “To Jay Garon, who cares.”

A quick Google search revealed that Jay Garon was—probably—the literary agent who would later become famous for being only guy in the universe who called the phone number at the top of an unsolicited manuscript by an aspiring novelist named John Grisham. After adaptations of Grisham’s bestselling legal thrillers—The Firm, The Client, The Pelican Brief—hit the bright lights and big titties of Hollywood, Garon would, according to his obituary in the Baltimore Sun, “regularly negotiate multimillion-dollar movie rights for books Mr. Grisham hadn’t written yet.”

It all made perfect sense. To Randy, anyway. And Randy was one of those people for whom the dots always connected, even when they didn’t. Satan’s Assassins asserted, basically, that Charles Manson, Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, Ramón Mercader (Leon Trotsky’s assassin), Chuck Guiteau (President James Garfield’s assassin) and other similarly positioned villains and/or patsies were the automatic agents of Satan. Well, duh.  In Randy’s world, both public figures and anonymous everymen sold their souls to the devil on a regular basis. These transactions were in no way figurative or metaphorical. These people spoke, out loud, with Lucifer himself. Hasty, often desperate negotiations took place. Concessions were made. Deals were cut. It was a routine exchange, like buying a loaf of bread. And that’s exactly why nobody in a position to expose the phenomenon—journalists, the government, academics, NASA—gave it a second thought. In fact, most of them had probably sold their own souls long ago. It was a closed circuit, a never-ending wheel.

Fuck them anyway, Randy thought. I’m keeping my soul no matter how bad shit gets. Even when the 9000-pound cock-hammer drops. And by Randy’s watch, the 9000-pound cock-hammer was due to drop any second. This is 2012, after all. The Mayans knew what was up. None of their prophecies were in any way bullshit or the result of sunstroke or some delayed after-effect of whatever mysterious herbs they were ingesting. No way.

There was something else, of course. There was always something else. Randy considered himself something of a virtuoso in the field of astral projection. He had discovered this ability by accident sometime in the late ’90s, when he left his body while masturbating and was able to achieve an aerial view of his own jerk-off session.  He got so excited by this startling development that his dopamine receptors misfired and he lost his erection. But by that point he didn’t care.

Randy started jacking it three times a day. By his count, he successfully embarked on at least one psychic voyage every few months. As a result, he’d seen a few things. Like the signing of the Magna Carta. Like the moon landing (which took place on a soundstage in Newark, just as he suspected). Like his own grandfather being conceived in an outhouse in Nebraska. Randy was also pretty sure he’d spoken at length with Carlos Castaneda somewhere in the Fifth Dimension. Or at least his soul had talked at a shadow that vaguely resembled Castaneda’s profile. At one point, Randy felt he had projected himself into the day room at Pleasant Valley State Prison and smoked weed with Sirhan Sirhan.

It was all part of what Randy understood as a collective consciousness. A lattice of coincidence. Satan’s Assassins was just another brick in the wall between himself and those who couldn’t or wouldn’t comprehend. Which was totally fine. There was no doubt in Randy’s mind who would prevail—who would achieve total consciousness—and who would languish in the stale, dark corners of perception. His path was clear: Onwards, upwards, astrally and forever. Or at least until the cock-hammer drops.

This bullshit originally appeared in the June 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.