Funked Away

"I'm tired of all this," muttered McJazz, his gaze passing over the framed photos of bass guitars and amplifiers that adorned the glitter-covered wall.
  Coca-Cola glared with annoyance at his spandex-wearing bandmate, "Oh, what is it now? Did you spill your martini again?"
  "No, I've just been thinking about, you know, that we've been touring the same cities, playing the same songs, taking the same drugs, for over 30 years now. Do you ever feel Cola, that if we don't get out of this downward spiral soon, it'll be all we ever have?" McJazz stared at Coca-Cola, his eyes betraying a profound and previously untraceable wisdom. The silence that followed was weighty, almost tangible.
  "Bloody hell!" Coca-Cola laughed, his protruding beer-belly bouncing with every convulsion, "You must be truly off your face to be talking that kind of nonsense."
  "Or maybe it is you who's mind is clouded," came a reply from the doorway, as a tall, dark figure stepped forward, "I understand what you mean Jazz, and I want you to know that I'm starting to feel the same way. I daresay, in my darker moments, I've even found myself-"
  "Oh, sod off Steve!" McJazz exclaimed, "the day I get career advice from a drummer is the day I finally check myself into rehab!" He chuckled to himself, as he slowly leaned into the plush, velvet armchair beside him, "I suppose you're right Cola, I mean, how could we ever get these delicious and fruity martinis if we weren't a globally acclaimed touring funk act?" He took another sip from his cocktail glass, "damn, these martinis are good, where did we get these from anyways?"
  "Charles bought them for us," said Coca-Cola, "along with these packets of bacon flavoured crisps, and those pictures of guitars and stuff."
  McJazz nodded, gazing at the wall with unfeigned amusement, "I didn't even know I owned a purple Stratocaster."
  Steve sighed. "You don't, they're only-"
  "Did someone say my name?" trilled Charles, his portly frame almost knocking Steve over as he marched through the doorway, "I've got some fantastic news for you all."
  "Is it about the fan-club?" asked McJazz.
  "No, I'm afraid not, although the hospital has assured me her condition is stable, and her family has promised not to hold us liable for what happened. No, this news is about the Kansas City gig. I've just heard back from the venue, and it turns out they've had to cancel our concert tomorrow."
  "Why?" said Coca-Cola, his eyebrows raised in annoyance, "whatever the bloody hell happened?"
  "Well, it's more like something didn't happen."
  "What didn't happen?"
  "Ticket sales."
  "Ah," paused Coca-Cola, his face returning to its usual wrinkled state, "so how exactly is that fantastic news?"
  Charles grinned, his earnest expression remaining unchanged, "Well, I've managed to find a much better concert with a much more appreciative audience in the well known town of Moberly."
  "I've never heard of it," called McJazz, from his reclined position on the armchair.
  "Well, I'll have you know that it has a population of over 30,000."
  "And does that figure, by any chance, include cattle?"
  "Why y- yes, yes it does." Charles' moustache twitched, though his face remained aflame with incessant geniality.
  "So is there any way we can accommodate any bovine concert-goers into the, the, what venue are we playing again?"
  "The local library."
  "The local library, you say? And would the library in Moberly have a strict no-cows policy, perchance?"
  "I'm afraid so, it's all two-legs good, four-legs bad as far as they're concerned." Charles frowned, his moustache bristled with discernible self-defeat.
  "So, how does this improve our situation?" asked Steve.
  "Oh stop complaining!" McJazz exclaimed, still staring at the ceiling from his horizontal position, "being a manager isn't as easy as being a drummer, you know. Charles is trying as hard as he can, just like when he got us that last minute concert in that café in Kearney, or when we ended up playing that zoo in Kalamazoo. Sure, we've had some hurdles in the past, like the last time we went bankrupt when Johnny had to change his name to Cola in the deal with that soft drinks company."
  Coca-Cola nodded, "I still don't know why Pepsi named me the way they did. It's almost as if they didn't want me to represent their brand."
  "I know," McJazz said, as he turned over to face their flustered manager, "Now Charles, I think what our inconsiderate drummer was trying to say was, how does playing in a bloody library full of illiterate cattle farmers possibly help our situation?"
  Charles frowned, wiping his furrowed brow with a handkerchief, "Oh dear me, I can see that you're upset, shall I get you some more fruit juice?"
  "What are you talking about? This is a martini, isn't it?"
  "Oh- Oh yes, my mistake. I'll just go fetch you another-" Charles suddenly froze as a piercing cry erupted from outside the room. It seemed that whomever was causing it was in urgent need of assistance. Everybody exchanged awkward glances across the room as they waited for the screaming to die down. It didn't.
  Coca-Cola glanced towards that door, "Hang on, I'd recognise that sustained screaming sound from anywhere. That's Roadie 2's voice."
  McJazz struggled to rise from his horizontal state, his arms collapsing under the weight of his diamond-encrusted jumpsuit, "Roadie 2? But why on earth is he screaming? There's really no reason for it. Unless..." he suddenly shot up with a jolt, in a speed that belied his pencil thin frame, "the instruments!" he cried, "Roadie 2 must be screaming about our instruments!"

Rushing out of their caravan in a blur of sequins and elaborate hairstyles, the band followed the screaming all the way to Don's trailer.
  "What on earth is the matter Roadie 2?" panted McJazz.
  Roadie 2 finally stopped screaming. His face was paler than Coca-Cola's leather trousers, "He's... he's dead."
  "Who's dead?" McJazz asked, gazing around with abject puzzlement. Then he looked down. "Oh my, is that Don?"
  Coca-Cola nodded, "I assume so, unless you know anyone else who wears face-paint and dresses in predominantly black and white."
  "True, but are you sure he's dead? Mimes don't usually say much, and they are very good at staying still."
  "And surviving stab wounds to the chest?"
  "Well now, don't be ridiculous Steve, that would be-" McJazz paused, as his gaze landed on the ebony knife handle. Thinking that perhaps he'd said enough, he quietly sneaked out of the trailer in pursuit of another martini.
  Charles felt for Don's pulse, and then stepped back, once again reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his troubled brow, "I can't believe it, Don Finn, dead. What a tragic waste of young Cockney miming talent."
  Steve stared at the body, his mind deep in thought, "What do you reckon we should do now, then? Should we call the police?"
  At the mention of the police, Coca-Cola spun round, his teeth gnashing indignantly, "How's about you come up with a good suggestion for a change? You know we can't contact the fuzz, they've been on our backs ever since that baking powder mix-up in Oklahoma. I think we should start looking for clues ourselves, and then we can catch the bastard who's done this."
  Roadie 2 coughed nervously, his expression still visibly shaken, "There's broken glass everywhere, could that be important, perhaps?"
  Charles knelt down, picking up a piece of glass, "And it's soaking wet! Don's fishbowl must've been knocked over."
  "And there's Don's fish!" Coca-Cola said, picking up the flapping animal by it's tail, "If this isn't a clue then I don't know what is."
  Steve frowned, "Don't jump to conclusions too easily Cola, that fish could turn out to be a red herring."
  "Don't be ridiculous!" Coca-Cola snapped, "It's much larger than that. I'd say it's more like a maroon carp. What do you think Roadie 2?"
  Roadie 2, who had been staring at the body as if in a trance, proceeded to jump with alarm at the mention of his name, "I agree with you, Mr. Cola, Sir, you're absolutely, indisputably right. Sh- Shall I find something to put it in?"
  "I can do that, " asserted Charles, straightening his tweed blazer, "You, my friend, could use a lie down. So how exactly," he turned to Coca-Cola and Steve, "Are we going to solve this murder?"
  "Don't worry Charles, I have the perfect plan," smiled Coca-Cola.

The sun dropped down over the Missouri plains, causing the outside of all the trailers to emit a phosphorescent glow, the result of some questionable paint choices by McJazz. But inside one particularly vivid neon-pink trailer, the lights had been turned off. Four shivering men stood apprehensively in line, their predominantly naked bodies only illuminated by a lava lamp positioned in the middle of the room. Their toes clutched at the shag carpeting, as they rubbed their bare arms to ward off the frigid breeze coming through the open door. A fully clothed Coca-Cola paced back and forth between the four figures, his expression steely and determined. McJazz sat quietly near the far wall, drink in hand, as he feigned an interest in the lamp's ebb and flow.
  "Now, I think you all know why you're here," Coca-Cola said.
  "I believe so", stammered Charles, "but was it really necessary for us to only wear our underwear?"
  "Sure it is! That was our good friend McJazz's idea. He told me that he wanted to see all of you laid bare, and I for one couldn't agree more."
  "I'm pretty sure he was talking about the facts, not us," Charles said.
  "What's that Charles?" Coca-Cola leant closer to Charles' rounded figure, "I must confess, I've been having trouble hearing people nowadays. There's been this buzzing in my ears ever since we finished that tour of Japan. I haven't a clue what's causing it."
  "Tinnitus?"
  "No, it's in my ears." Coca-Cola rubbed his mink-coat in frustration, "Bloody hell it's cold in here! Roadie 2, close the damn door!"
  "D- does that mean I can leave the line?"
  "Yes, but be quick! And turn on the lights while you're at it, this lamp's starting to strain my eyesight." The room flooded with light, showing the beige polka-dot wallpaper and the extravagant wall to wall mirror whose golden frame had steadily been chipped away at, the pieces fetching a modest price on the black market. "Thank you," Coca-Cola grinned at the bedraggled man, who managed a smile as he re-took his place in the line-up, the blue hue of his limited edition, McJazz signed underpants sticking out against his pale skin. Coca-Cola cleared his throat loudly, "Now, if that's all sorted out, let's continue with the interroga-"
  "And just why am I being interrogated again?" Steve scowled, "You do know I've been with you the entire day?"
  "Steve, Steve, Steve," Coca-Cola shook his head, "You naive fool. You couldn't possibly begin to comprehend the mysterious and methodical nature of my grand plan. You might as well be asking why this mysterious man who arrived last night is here alongside you."
  "Yes, why am I in this line-up?" The smaller, balding man beside Steve shook his head in disbelief. His frayed, plain white underpants and slightly broken glasses betrayed his hard-working, frugal nature, "I did tell you why I was here last night, although you seem to to have forgotten."
  "Maybe it was to kill Don?" Coca-Cola walked in front of the man and jabbed a long, bony finger into his chest. "You are a 'professional' of some description. You call yourself Gary, although who knows if that is your real name. You arrive here, late at night and for no reason. Then, all of a sudden, one of my favourite mimes is stabbed. You said it yourself that something seemed fishy about the whole thing."
  "No, I said I was a marine biologist. I got a call from the police last night about a distress call from here, something about a dolphin under attack."
  "A dolphin? In Missouri? We're not even near a body of water for Christ's sake! Whatever made you think there was a dolphin here?"
  "Perhaps you can tell me," Gary met Coca-Cola's gaze with an equally intimidating glare, "the Police said it was a man named after a soft drink who called."
  "Did they really? I don't remember making a call."
  "Well, you do get quite forgetful when you drink," McJazz said.
  "True, but I don't remember drinking either, so how can that be right?" Coca-Cola ran his fingers through his oily, neon red hair, and stared at the line of men in irritation, "But then, 'Gary', why are you still here? It must have been perfectly clear from the moment you arrived that there weren't any dolphins in peril here."
  "Your friend Charles said I could stay the night in this room. I went for a walk this morning, and I was just planning my route back when you burst in here and demanded I take my clothes off!"
  "Oh be quiet, you should feel flattered. I've been told there's thousands of housewives who would love to be in your position." Coca-Cola dismissed the exasperated man with a wave of his hand. He then walked down the line, jabbing his finger into the chest of his next quivering victim, "Now, Roadie 2, where were you at the time of the murder?"
  "We don't know when the murder was," Steve interjected, "why are you so sure it happened today?"
  "Good point Steve," Charles said, "did anyone see Don alive today?"
  McJazz looked gloomily into his swirling drink, "I don't think I saw Dylan this week, this month even. It's not like we had much call for a mime around here."
   Coca-Cola turned from Roadie 2, who exhaled a sigh of relief. "Damn, your right. God this is depressing me. Not only do I feel guilty for never giving a thought to Don when he was alive, we don't even know if his murder happened today, cos none of us ever thought to check on the bastard! I'm tired of all this interviewing anyhow, if we're going to get to the bottom of this, we need to bring out our main piece of evidence. Roadie 2, fetch Don's maroon carp!"

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Who the bloody hell put that fish in fruit juice?"
  "I'll have you know that's a martini," McJazz replied, as he gazed into the cocktail glass, "what else could I have done? We used all our clean water in those on-stage ice sculptures for the Nevada gig, and I think we all remember how that ended."
  "I was drunk, of course I can't remember. Still, at least our equipment was insured." Coca-Cola turned to the men getting dressed in front of them. Holding Don's fish by it's tail, he walked up to Gary, who had finished putting on his worn leather jacket, "So, Mr marine biologist person, any chance you can tell us something about this fish we don't already know?"
  Gary adjusted his glasses, "why, good god, that looks like a Piscis Imaginarius. I haven't seen a live specimen like this in years. The tiny spines on its back house a powerful neurochemical that can cause extreme bouts of depression, with many victims committing self-harm and, in very rare cases, taking their own lives."
  "Wait, you're telling me this thing is poisonous?"
  "I believe so, yes."
  Coca-Cola wheezed out a shriek, as he dropped the fish onto the floor and stamped it into the shag carpeting with his jewel encrusted boots. Taking a few steps back, he shakily tried to regain his composure, leaning on Roadie 2 for support. "Well, that settles it then. The stupid Londoner touched his freaky fish and decided to off himself with some cutlery. Does that sound right to everyone?"
  McJazz yawned, "I'm too tired to care any more, really. C'mon guys, let's go make sure the tents are still full, we've got a big acoustic funk set to get ready for tomorrow." McJazz stumbled towards the door, his spindly frame once again struggling under his bejewelled attire, not to mention the debilitating effects of the beverages he had consumed. Roadie 2 ran to help prop him up, as they followed Steve and Coca-Cola out to the oxygen tents.

  Charles turned to face the relieved man standing next to him, "Well Gary, I wouldn't blame you now if you felt a little less inclined to see one of our shows. Coca-Cola has a tendency to overreact in these situations, you should have seen what happened when the last roadie killed himself, my, that wasn't pretty. Guess I should contact Mr and Mrs Finn now and let them know about their son. You're free to leave, although if you even choose to stop by again, I'd appreciate a little more honesty."
  "Whatever do you mean?" Gary stared at the larger man curiously.
  Charles laughed, "I'm not as clueless as them, you know. You obviously work for the police. I mean, why on earth would they send a marine biologist to investigate a 911 call, even if it was just some drunk guitarist rambling on about a dolphin. Also, everyone knows that Piscis Imaginariuses are perfectly harmless. So why did they send you? And why did you lie to Coca-Cola?"
  Gary relaxed, and cordially pun his palm on Charles' shoulder, "Well, I was worried that he was going to try and undress me again if I didn't tell him what he wanted. As to why I am here, well, that's none of your business. And besides, it is not like I'm the only dishonest party here."
  "Whatever do you mean?" Charles echoed.
  "We know that your party has had run-ins with the law before. That instance in Oklahoma, for example."
  Charles chuckled, as mellow jazz-funk started wafting in from one of the oxygen tents. "Don't be ridiculous Gary! Those bags contained-
 "Baking powder, yes, I've read the papers. It seemed strange though, that nobody in your group remembered bringing it on board. It seems that some officers are always thrown by decoys, never thinking that maybe there was something they overlooked."
  Charles took a few steps way from Gary, "Nonsense! The band was wholly innocent in that matter, they passed every lie test the fuzz put on them."
  "Yes, yet still the mystery remains. It's almost as if there's another party involved, an entity that the band is not aware of. Judging by how drugged up on martinis and medication they are, I doubt they're aware of much nowadays. There's a chance that they might potentially be being used to carry drugs across the US, but they sure as hell wouldn't start suspecting that anytime soon. Who knows, maybe Don started thinking otherwise."
  Charles' face betrayed no emotion, but his moustache twitched slightly, "What do you mean by that?"
  Gary glanced towards the sun rising above the Missouri plains through the open door, "Well, we're not ready to begin making any accusations yet. You should probably think about replacing your Roadie though, just in case, I thought he was looking quite shifty before. Rest assured, we've been cracking down hard on the drug problem in our state. Especially in Moberly, or the 'Harlem of the Midwest', as the press have started calling it. But I digress, farewell Charles." Gary returned the manager's particularly firm handshake, "who knows, maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."
  "Yes, perhaps." The slap-bass and soothing guitar grooves played on, and Charles grinned silently, as he watched Gary walk away through the trailer door.