200 Proof

[ZapX]

Holy goddamn, Brik. HOLY. GOD. DAMN.

[UrsusArctos]

Awesome as ever!

The power of 200 Proof's rock was so pure, they didn't need any technology to help them, all they needed was their instruments!

Damn, Brik, that is just so underwhelming when 200 Proof turned back time and tossed ballistic missiles into space with music! You should've tossed the Fade and the Ing reminders into a black hole and been done with it.

[BrikHaus]

... I feel like I'm too late in the game to start reading

It's only nine chapters, and none of them are that long. Plus, I write chapters sporadically, so you could easily catch up.

Damn, Brik, that is just so underwhelming when 200 Proof turned back time and tossed ballistic missiles into space with music! You should've tossed the Fade and the Ing reminders into a black hole and been done with it.

I can't just kill off the main villain so easily, can I? I decided that I needed to do the mandatory Tournament Story Arc now, because what I have planned for after the tournament has so much mind-blowing insanity, it will really make everything that comes before it seem underwhelming. Expect craziness.

[UrsusArctos]

I've long since come to expect more than mere craziness from you, old friend. I trust that the next few chapters will eclipse the previous ones.

[fadingreminder]

IT'S AS THOUGH YOU KNOW ME TO THE VERY CORE!

I love the update, it's truly incredible. I love the badassery of 200 Proof, especially the Tamborang and the Drum B.R.I.K.S. (Brik-to-Retard Impaling Kickass Sticks). Also, I took liberties and named the weapons, y'know... 'cause of my ego and all.

[BrikHaus]

200 Proof

Chapter 10: Rock and Roll All Nite

Place: Earth
Time: 2008

One month after the confrontation between 200 Proof and Fade and the Ing Reminders, the world's largest musical competition was set to begin. This was proposed to be unlike any local Battle of the Bands. It was a full on musical tournament. The world's greatest rock musicians had arrived to determine who was the greatest. Like the World Cup or the Olympics, the entire world watched with anticipation, hoping that their favorite would emerge victorious. Shiro had orchestrated the event, and was poised to make a profit somewhere in range of billions of dollars. To him, there was no doubt that the final round of the tournament would feature 200 Proof vs. Fade and the Ing Reminders. To help ensure that would happen, he placed the two opponents in opposite brackets.

It was now Monday morning. The first battle was about to begin. On the left side of the giant stage stood the three members of 200 Proof, their instruments ready. To the right stood their opponents, U2. Their lead singer, Bono held a microphone in his hand. The sun reflected brightly against his sleek, wrap-around sunglasses. He brought the microphone to his lips and said huskily, "Ladies and gentlemen. With our victory in this tournament, all of our winnings will go to help the starving Hollywood actors who have declared bankruptcy due to financial irresponsibility."

The crowd erupted with cheers. Bono turned back to the rest of his band, and pointed at them, shouting, "Hit it!" They burst into a soulful, heart-wrenching version of "The City of Blinding Lights." Bono wailed the lyrics with his back hyper-extended, and the microphone held halfway into his open mouth. Behind him the band played with little urgency or passion. Technically, they played well, but there was no love for the music. Years of fame and a sense of self-importance had made them complacent. As the music went on, the crowd continued to give a subdued cheer. Bono's lyrics and the band's listing tones attenuated the fire of the previously energized crowd. They swayed back and forth, and some held lighters in the air.

Meanwhile, across the stage, 200 Proof watched intently. BrikHaus, seated behind his drumset, looked to Ornette and asked, "How are you holding up?"

The last time the group had played in a battle of the bands, the ending had been disastrous. Many people lost their lives, and Ornette was thrown into a coma. When they played at that previous competition, Ornette had seemed preoccupied. BrikHaus wondered if there was another horrendous musical competition in Ornette's past. A man of few words, Ornette never talked about it. Any time BrikHaus or Tokpile tried to bring up the subject, Ornette drowned himself in whisky. They wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was plaguing their guitar player. They couldn't have a repeat of last time. They had to defeat Fade.

"I'm fine," Ornette replied stoically.

"Looks like they’re about the finish. Let's get ready," BrikHaus said.

"All right!" Tokpile said, excited.

U2 reached the climax of their song. Drums pounded, cymbals crashed, the guitar twanged, and Bono screeched a horrifying crescendo. He held the note for five, six, seven seconds, and then stopped, out of breath. As he sucked in deep breaths of air, the rest of the band brought their music to an abrupt conclusion. They set their instruments down, and faced the audience. Each member of U2 waved their hands, open palms, up and down, up and down. The crowd rose to their feet and cheered more loudly. As they cried out with glee, the band nodded their heads with satisfaction.

Not allowing this to continue any longer, 200 Proof launched into their song. The volume was deafening. The drums blasted, the tambourine crashed, and the guitar strummed furiously. The cheers of the crowd were overcome by the sheer power of 200 Proof's rock. They assaulted their opponents with a rendition of The Ramones' "Blitzkrieg Bop."

A powerful wind careened against U2, and knocked them all to the floor. Angrily, they rose, instruments ready to play in retaliation. But they were too old and slow. Before they could play a single note, 200 Proof increased the tempo by 200%. U2's instruments suddenly exploded in their hands! Bono's face was black with soot, the drumset was a fiery mess on the stage, and the guitars had liquefied.

The crowd cheered louder now, and chanted along with 200 Proof, "Hey! Ho! Let's go!"

Tokpile unleashed a ferocious tambourine solo. As he played, and whirled his body across the stage, lightning bolts shot out of the sky and zapped each member of U2. Afterwards, BrikHaus played the drums with his feet, and all of their opponents were suddenly caught up in a tornado, which slammed their bodies against one another. Finally, Ornette played a guitar solo, which caused U2's instruments to reform, only to explode in their faces once more. As 200 Proof reached the end of their song, their opponents were begging for mercy.

When the song ended, Shiro rushed on stage. He grabbed a microphone and addressed the jubilant crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen! That was amazing! I don't think we need to wait for the judges on this one! It's clear that the winners are 200 Proof!"

The members of U2 limped over to 200 Proof, clutching their sides, and stamping out the parts of their clothes that were still on fire. Bono shook the hands of BrikHaus and Tokpile. When he attempted to shake Ornette’s hand, Ornette did not acknowledge his presence. Instead, he stared toward the horizon with a blank look upon his face. Bono took a step backwards, uncertain what to say.

"Sorry if we went a little rough on you guys," Tokpile said.

"Oh no, it's not a problem," Bono replied. "In fact, we want to thank you."

"Thank us?" BrikHaus asked.

"Yes. Thanks to you, we were able to remember what music is all about. It's not about winning awards, or being a humanitarian, or having sex with groupies, or looking really cool on stage. It's about the music. You reminded us of that."

"I'm glad we could help," Tokpile said with a smile.

"We've resolved to go back to basics. Our next album with have passion and fire. And we are going to play with real drive. Like we used to do."

U2 thanked them again and departed. As they disappeared, a cleanup crew rushed onto the stage. They began to repair the damage to the stage and tidy up the mess of the ruined instruments. A few of them brandished fire extinguishers to spray out smoldering flames. While the cleanup crew worked diligently to prepare for the next battle, BrikHaus and Tokpile smiled at each other. They had advanced past the first round! It was time to celebrate.

“Let’s get a drink!” BrikHaus suggested.

“Sounds great,” Tokpile said.

BrikHaus and Tokpile started to walk off stage. As they started down the stairs, Tokpile noticed that Ornette was not with them. He craned his neck back and saw that Ornette had not moved. He stood in the same position he had occupied earlier. He was motionless, with his arms at his sides. His long black hair blew back in the gentle breeze. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose. Tokpile walked back on stage and, with a beaming smile, said, “Hey, Ornette! Let’s go!”

BrikHaus stopped now and turned around to see what was happening. Ornette gave no response. He was like a statue, rigid, and vacant eyes. Tokpile walked over to his side, and tugged at the sleeve of Ornette’s shirt. “We won. Let’s go celebrate.” Still nothing. Tokpile pulled harder, and Ornette sluggishly started to move. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. Tokpile continue to pull on Ornette’s sleeve, and directed him across the stage like a zombie. Maybe all he needed was some whisky. Tokpile hoped that once they got to a bar, they would be able to get Ornette back to his old self.

200 Proof headed to the closest bar, which was only a block away from the location of the tournament. As they departed, Fade watched from afar. He stood inside a private box, reserved for only for royalty or the most important dignitaries. With his arms folded across his chest, he scowled in anger. "Those bastards," he grumbled. "I should have known they would get past the first round. It looks like I'll have to take measures into my own hands."

He pulled a cell phone out from his pocket and flipped it open. He hit a speed dial button and waited as the phone rang. Someone picked up it a moment later. Without waiting for a response, Fade barked, "Initiate phase one." Again, without waiting for a response, he closed the phone. Those bastards would pay. He would use this tournament to prove, once and for all, that he was the greatest musician ever.

At the bar, the three members of 200 Proof sat down for a drink. They climbed into a small, half-circle booth. Ornette sat in the middle, and his bandmates sat on either side. While BrikHaus and Tokpile raved about their success, Ornette remained silent. He sat with his hands on the table, clenched into fists.

Tokpile turned to Ornette and asked, “Isn’t it great that we beat such a well known band?”

No response.

"Bartender," Tokpile shouted. "Can we get some Caol Ila over here?"

As the bartender handed a bottle of the expensive whisky to their waiter, Tokpile asked, "Ornette, what's wrong?"

Ornette stared into space, silent. As the waiter sat the bottle of Caol Ila down on the table, Ornette didn't seem to notice. A vacant look enveloped him. It was as if he was in a trance, or so deep in thought he had blocked out all external stimuli.

"Hey, man, why don't you drink some of this?" BrikHaus asked as he poured a glass of whisky. He slid it over to Ornette. The contents sloshed back and forth in the glass, and a small bit splashed onto the table. As the liquor soaked into the wood, Ornette continued to be unresponsive.

Tokpile and BrikHaus exchanged a nervous look. What was going on with him? He had played incredibly well during their battle with U2, but now he was practically in a coma. If they didn't figure out what to do, and figure it out quickly, their chances of winning this competition would be ruined. While BrikHaus and Tokpile deliberated nervously, Ornette was lost in memories.

Not again, he thought. A few snippets of distant memories played over and over again in his mind, like a record caught in an endless loop. There was the screech of a guitar, cheers of the crowd turning into cries of anguish, and finally explosions and sound of church bells. He only heard the sounds. His vision was clouded with murky blackness. Not again, he thought. It couldn't happen again, not a third time.

Tokpile pushed the glass of whisky against Ornette's mouth and tried to force him to drink. The brown liquid spilled down the sides of his face, and stained his shirt. Yet, nothing passed by his closed lips. If Ornette was so concerned about something that he refused to drink, then 200 Proof was doomed. BrikHaus and Tokpile felt themselves doused with icy panic. As they continued to try and help their friend, a man approached the table.

"Excuse me," he said.

Tokpile and BrikHaus looked up. The man wore a business suit and a red and blue striped tie. He held a large manila envelope in his hands. The two members of 200 Proof stared at him quizzically, too wrought with distress from their friend's catatonia to respond to this new individual. The man continued, "I'm looking for someone named BrikHaus."

"Oh, uh, yeah, that's me," BrikHaus replied.

"Then it's my honor to present you with this," the man responded. He held the envelope forward. BrikHaus hesitantly took it from his hands and looked it over. It was unmarked, save for his name, BRIKHAUS, printed in large handwritten letters on the front. The man continued, "I would like to be the first to welcome you to Le Cordon Bleu."

"Le Cordon... what?!" BrikHaus asked with disbelief.

"That's correct, sir. Your application has been accepted. Congratulations."

"W-wait. There must be some mistake."

"Oh no, sir. No mistake. I'm certain of it."

Before BrikHaus could ask anything else, the man hurried out of the bar. BrikHaus looked down at the envelope. He turned it over and over in his hands. He couldn't believe it. After all these years... And to get this now, what terrible timing.

"What is that?" Tokpile asked, momentarily distracted from Ornette's predicament.

Dumbfounded, BrikHaus tore open the envelope and ripped out the contents. A thick stack of papers with his name at the top greeted him. This was it. He had finally done it. Many years ago, his father had been a successful cook. He owned and operated a popular bakery. His dream was that his son would someday attend the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, France to become a world renowned chef. BrikHaus, however, had no interest in cooking. The only thing he liked to do was play the drums. Before owning a drumset, he would bang on his father's pots and pans with cooking utensils. His father thought it was a sign BrikHaus should become a chef. It had been a point of contention between the two of them for as long as he could remember. And then, the unthinkable happened. A tragic baking accident befell his father. BrikHaus could still vividly remember the sight of his father hooked up to all those machines in the dim hospital room. On his father's deathbed, he made BrikHaus promise that he would apply to Le Cordon Bleu. BrikHaus obeyed his father's dying wish, but he never dreamed he would ever be accepted. He had applied back in the days that NERVs of Steel was still a band. It had been so long, he thought they must have rejected his application.

"What's going on? Tokpile asked. "Don't tell me that you're going to end up like Ornette, too."

"Huh? Oh, sorry," BrikHaus said, shaking his head to snap himself out of a prison of his own thoughts. He slid the acceptance letter across the table so Tokpile could read it.

"What? You want to be a chef now?" Tokpile asked, perplexed.

"No," BrikHaus said. "But it was my father's dying wish. I promised him I would go to this culinary school. And look, it says I have to be there for the first class in two days. If I don't, then I'll lose my spot."

"So what? Forget it, who cares?" Tokpile asked with a shrug.

"You don't understand. I promised my father. I can't betray him now that he's gone!"

"But what about the tournament? We need you. If you leave now, there's no way we can win!"

"Forget it, Tok. You wouldn't understand."

"So, you're going, then?"

"I...think so."

"What about the second round tomorrow?"

"I'll play that, as our final performance together as 200 Proof."

BrikHaus and Tokpile turned their attention back to Ornette. He was still catatonic. What were they going to do tomorrow? How would they get him to play? Perhaps they had already had their final performance as 200 Proof. BrikHaus felt overcome by sadness. His limbs felt heavy, and his chest ached. It was over. His dream of playing drums in an incredible rock band was finally over. But now, he would be able to fulfill his father's dream for him. He would go on to become a world famous chef. He would do it.

The next day, as 200 Proof ascended to the tournament stage, it felt as if they were proceeding through a funeral march. BrikHaus was going to leave the band, and Ornette was a husk of his former self. Only Tokpile remained, and with all these recent blows to the band, his spirits flagged.

It was morning. The sun shone brightly above. A few white clouds dotted an otherwise pristine blue sky. Birds chirped happily in the distance. The typically energized crowd murmured with subdued anticipation. It was strange. It was as if whomever 200 Proof was about to engage in rock battle was a band worthy of reverence. Last night, Tokpile didn't have the energy to check to see who they would be competing against. He was so overcome with grief, he didn't see the point.

BrikHaus reached the top of the stage first, his head slung down. He didn't look up to see who the opponents would be. He simply moved to the drumset, and plopped himself down on the seat behind it. Tokpile came up next, physically pulling Ornette behind him by the arm. Tokpile's eyes widened when he saw their opponents. It was none other than legendary rock band The Rolling Stones.

"Oh shit," Tokpile said with disbelief. His grip loosened and his tambourine fell to the stage floor with a jingle. He snatched it back up, and hoped that no one had noticed. Tremulous now, he positioned Ornette in the front of the stage. Ornette was still catatonic. His flashy blue guitar was slung limply around the back of his neck. He stared out blankly, shut off from the rest of the world. However, inside his mind was a tumult of emotional distress.

Meanwhile, Fade watched from his private box. His arms shook and his hands were clenched tightly. His face slowly turned from its natural ghostly pale complexion to a fiery red. He turned to his right where Shiro, clad in his trademark all white suit and tie, stood. "You son of a bitch!" Fade spat.

"What?"

"You told me this thing would be set up so 200 Proof would lose!"

"So what's the problem?" Shiro asked, shaking his head with fear. He didn’t let Fade know that he didn’t care who won the tournament. The only thing he cared about was making a huge profit. He had set it up in order to reflect his desire for wealth.

"Then why did you put them up against those old geezers? It's no contest!"

"Fade, you don't understand. The Rolling Stones are rock legends. Nobody parties more or rocks harder than those guys. They've been doing it for decades. They're practically immortal. There is no way small timers like 200 Proof will beat them."

"You'd better be right," Fade grumbled before turning his attention back to the stage.

Back on stage, The Rolling Stones stepped to the forefront. The crowd rose to the tips of their toes. They clasped their hands together as if in prayer. Tears shimmered in their eyes. They were so fortunate. They would bear witness to true legends of rock! Mick Jagger grabbed the microphone and shouted into it, "All right, everybody, let's rock 'n roll!"

They kicked things off with "Brown Sugar." The once quiet audience suddenly exploded with excitement. Keith Richards made his guitar scream, Ronnie Wood blasted a furious line with his bass guitar, Charlie Watts pounded the drums with precision timing, and Mick Jagger belted out lyric after amazing lyric. The crowd cheered and clapped along. As The Rolling Stones continued to play, a brilliant orange aura formed around each of the band members. They kicked it up a notch, and started rocking even harder. The orange auras of each band member coalesced into a large glowing fireball above their heads. It then shot out, and raced toward 200 Proof. Before they could dodge, the fireball careened into the much younger band.

200 Proof's section of the stage instantly caught fire. A crater remained where the fireball had landed. Splintered wood from the wrecked stage was strewn about. The three members of the band had been knocked apart by the force of the blast. BrikHaus and Tokpile picked themselves up, and began to brush off the ash that covered their bodies. Ornette lay motionless, strewn across the stage floor. Together, Tokpile and BrikHaus hefted him up. As they did so, they thought they heard a distant, maniacal laugh that almost sounded like Fade.

"We need to play something!" Tokpile shouted.

"What should it be?" BrikHaus replied.

They looked to Ornette who always knew the perfect song to play. However, he was still detained within his mental prison. He would be of little use to them. While The Rolling Stones continued to rock hard, BrikHaus and Tokpile deliberated. Eventually, they agreed upon a Jimi Hendrix song. BrikHaus started things off with a killer drumbeat. Tokpile maneuvered Ornette's hands like a puppeteer, getting him to go through the motions of playing the guitar. After a moment of this, he let go, and Ornette continued to play the song, although quite robotically. Finally, Tokpile chimed in with his tambourine. They played hard, but they weren't good enough. They couldn't muster enough energy to perform any sort of counter-attack.

The Rolling Stones continued to rock furiously. Each band member contributed to a musical fusion so pure, that the gods of rock delighted. Halos appeared above their heads, and angels hovered by their shoulders. They switched from "Brown Sugar" to "Start Me Up." As they did so, a powerful burst of energy rushed through the audience. They cheered for the British rockers, and had completely forgotten that 200 Proof was even on stage. Keith Richards leaned his body backward and let rip a furious guitar solo. When he did, a swarm of bees materialized around 200 Proof, and started to sting them mercilessly.

The bees swarmed so heavily, that all 200 Proof could see was a cloud of black and yellow insects. The stage, their opponents, and the crowd were blotted out. They abandoned the Jimi Hendrix song, and tried something by The Clash. Again, Tokpile had to start Ornette's playing, like he was pull-starting a lawn mower. Enraged by the painful sting of the insects, 200 Proof rocked harder. A powerful wind burst outward in all directions, casting the bees away.

They tried to build momentum. BrikHaus' hands became a flurry over the drums. The multi-colored lights high above the stage exploded and rained sparks of electricity down. Bolts of highly charged energy hit The Rolling Stones' instruments as if they were lightning rods. The electricity was conducted into their bodies, but nothing happened. They continued to play on, unaffected.

"Amazing," Fade said from a distance. "How did they withstand that attack?"

Shiro smirked, knowing the answer. "It's quite simple. The Rolling Stones have used so many drugs over the years, that their sensory nervous systems are dead. They didn't feel a thing."

"I love it," Fade said. “Soon I’ll be proven the best musician ever.”

Shiro rubbed his hands together greedily and replied, "And I'll become the richest man in the world."

Back on stage, The Rolling Stones concluded "Start Me Up" and switched to "Honky Tonk Women." As they played, a million high-class, disease-free prostitutes appeared in the crowd. They swooned over the men in the audience. At the same time, a million high-class, disease-free gigolos appeared in the crowd. They swept the women off their feet. The adulation for The Rolling Stones grew even greater than before. Nevertheless, 200 Proof rocked harder, hoping against hope, to defeat their opponents.

200 Proof switched from The Clash to a song by Chicago. They built up more power now, and blasted out against The Rolling Stones. They withstood the attack, without a scratch on them. The Rolling Stones fought back, often bringing 200 Proof to their knees. But every time they got back up and continued to play. And so the battle raged on. The morning hours eased into a hot afternoon, which gave way to a sweltering evening. As the sun set, The Rolling Stones looked to be in pristine condition, and showed no signs of tiring. On the other side of the stage, 200 Proof was battered and fatigued. It looked as if they would succumb to defeat.

Every song, every artist from Motorhead to The Kinks to Rush, was not enough to overcome The Rolling Stones. They were far too powerful, too experienced in the world of rock. It seemed as if they had no weaknesses, no breaking points. Tokpile was distraught. He was on the verge of tears. He was low on energy, and his morale was long since obliterated. BrikHaus played the drums with malaise, keeping an erratic beat, and missing notes. Ornette, however, was unchanged. He continued to play robotically as he stared vacantly toward the dark horizon.

The Rolling Stones concluded "Sympathy for the Devil" and then immediately launched into "Jumpin' Jack Flash." 200 Proof played sluggishly, barely able to defend against each of their opponents’ massive rock attacks. Still, they forged on, for what seemed to be an eternity. The night continued onward until the very late hours.

On stage, during a drum solo, Mick Jagger said to his bandmates, "Come on, mates, we need to hurry up and end this. We've been rockin' all night long. We haven't even had a chance to party today." His bandmates agreed and began to rock even harder and faster in an attempt to finish off their surprisingly tenacious enemies.

Tokpile heard the conversation from across the stage. Instantly, he knew the perfect song. They would have to give it their all. It would be a last ditch effort. Either they would succeed, or they would collapse from exhaustion. No matter what happened, this would be the final song of the evening. "All right, guys!" Tokpile shouted, feeling strange as he led the band for the very first time. "Let's play Kiss on three! One, two, three!"

200 Proof burst out with new energy playing "Rock and Roll All Nite." BrikHaus and Tokpile rocked harder than they ever had before. A mighty gust of wind and a torrent of acid rain bombarded their opponents. Still, it wasn't enough. Against any other band, BrikHaus and Tokpile would have been victorious, but to defeat The Rolling Stones, they needed Ornette at full strength. Tokpile looked over at their guitar player. He still played robotically.

"Ornette!" he yelled out. "Come on, man, we need you!"

Meanwhile, The Rolling Stones kicked up the tempo again, and forced the powerful wind and acid rain back at 200 Proof. Keith Richards shouted, "Let's finish these guys off once and for all. These alcohol boys aren't real rockers. Not like us in our heroin days."

"Yeah, we're the real rockers. Look at those chumps. Whisky isn't even a man's drink," Mick Jagger joked back.

Whisky isn't even a man's drink.
Whisky isn't even a man's drink.
Whisky isn't even a man's drink.

The words resonated within Ornette's mind. The swirling blackness and screams of so many people were deafened by those horrifying words. Inside Ornette's consciousness there was a moment of complete silence. And then, he heard his heartbeat. It started as a slow, rhythmic beat, but it intensified. It started to go faster. The infinite blackness pulsed a vibrant red with each heartbeat. Ornette wasn't certain if it was simply the pulsing of his heart he was seeing, or the visual manifestation of his rage. Whisky isn't even a man's drink. The all-encompassing blackness burned a brighter and brighter red in time with each heartbeat. His heart was pumping faster and faster now. So fast, that the blackness was completely overcome. The burning red flames of his anger enveloped him. "NOT EVEN A MAN'S DRINK?!"

"BASTARDS!" Ornette screamed out suddenly. "Not even a man’s drink?! Who the hell do you think we are?!"

"Ornette! You're back!" Tokpile and BrikHaus shouted with glee.

Ornette turned his head back to his bandmates and gave them a quick nod. He pushed his glasses up his nose and said, "Let's show these geezers who they're dealing with." He turned his attention back to The Rolling Stones, and narrowed his eyes.

In unison the three musicians shouted, "We are 200 Proof!"

Ornette jammed on the guitar with newfound life. His fingers were a blur over the strings. A shockwave of music more powerful than the sound barrier blasted outward. There was a thunderous boom, and suddenly the crowd turned their attention to the left side of the stage. They had been so enamored by The Rolling Stones for so long, they had forgotten about 200 Proof. Playing together, they once more turned back the wind and acid rain. With Ornette's full attention on the music, they were able to summon two more elements. Volcanic rock and a torrent of lava slammed against their enemies. For the first time all day, The Rolling Stones looked worried.

The Rolling Stones played harder in an attempt to stave off the attack. But they weren't strong enough to overcome it. They had made a key error. They had made Ornette mad. As Ornette, Tokpile, and BrikHaus played at full strength, the gods of rock revoked their blessings from The Rolling Stones and bestowed them on 200 Proof. The band played harder and faster, and rocked more than anyone ever had before. Their side of the stage was a wreck, and their instruments were in shambles from the barrage of attacks, but they played on.

The Kiss song was reaching a close. The Rolling Stones continued to rock hard, but were unable to overpower their opponents. As 200 Proof neared the end, they gave one last extra push of rock power. Ornette shredded a killer guitar solo of "Eruption" from Van Halen. Suddenly, four empty bottles materialized in mid-air. One bottle hovered before each member of The Rolling Stones. Suddenly, all the members of The Rolling Stones started to shake uncontrollably. Their bodies vibrated rapidly. They shook so much, they each became a blur. The sound from their instruments became a disastrous crash of noise. It was a cacophony so horrible, that it was no longer music. They screamed out in fear just as all the particles of their bodies separated. Trillions of atoms whirled around the stage like a cyclone. Their instruments clattered to the ground. The atoms swirled faster and faster until they started to disperse. They were sucked into each of the four bottles. Every atom was sucked in, until the stage was empty. The atoms reformed as a shimmering brown liquid within each of the bottles.

The song was over. The audience quieted with disbelief. An eerie silence fell over the stage. The only sound was that of 200 Proof’s shoes as they walked to the other side of the stage. BrikHaus and Tokpile each plucked a floating bottle of whisky out of the air. They chugged them down. Ornette thirstily drank the other two. Once finished, they dropped the bottles to the floor, and held up their arms victoriously. The crowd shrieked with delight. There was an eruption of sound, cheers, and calls of love for 200 Proof. They had witnessed the greatest rock battle of all time!

Shiro clambered on stage and grabbed a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen! What a performance! Let's hear it for 200 Proof!"

Meanwhile, back in the private box, Fade was fuming. "Nooooooo!" he screamed as he punched two of his minions in their faces. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way! 200 Proof was supposed to lose! He turned around to look at those two-bit hacks as they waved to the audience. "No matter," he grumbled. "My plan is already underway. They are going to break up, and then they should be no match for me."

As the crowd continued to cheer, the members of 200 Proof looked at one another. BrikHaus said to Ornette, "Listen, there's something I need to tell you." He relayed the tale of his father's culinary dreams, and his recent acceptance to Le Cordon Bleu. Ornette nodded his head solemnly.

"Wait a sec. After all that, you're still leaving the band?" Tokpile asked.

"It's something I have to do," BrikHaus responded, holding back tears.

Ornette raised a hand and said, "Good luck. It's been an honor."

They shook hands and smiled. 200 Proof had lost a member, but they had performed an incredible feat tonight. Something that they would remember for the rest of their lives. Despite going their separate ways, they would always have this moment. They stayed on stage for a while longer, soaking in the adoration of the fans. It was true that they only played for pure love of the music, but they could not deny it was nice to be appreciated. In the distance, the sun peaked over the horizon. A new day had come.

[ZapX]

FUCKING awesome, as usual. I wonder what other crazy shit Fade has in store for them.

[UrsusArctos]

Back in action! Ooh-rah!!!

[Ornette]

IT'S AS THOUGH YOU KNOW ME TO THE VERY CORE!

That's all I've got to say.

This was probably one of the best chapters. Really looking forward to see what happens next.

As a random side note:

<Ornette> so I pulled it up and started reading Brik's new chapter
<Ornette> and my GF was sitting next to me and looked at my screen
<Ornette> and she sees "Ornette" and asks what it is, and I say this guy is writing a story that I'm in
<Ornette> she says "Jon, that is really fucking weird" and leaves

She doesn't understand that me and Brik were brothers separated at kinderheim 511, so whatever.

[Sailor Star Dust]

Equal parts hilarious and epic. Keep it up!

[fadingreminder]

I need a 200 Proof tattoo. It has been decided.

[BrikHaus]

Tokpile, can you design a 200 Proof logo? It needs to be appropriately epic.

Also, new chapter in the works.

EDIT: Anyone can feel free to try a logo, it doesn't have to be Tokpile.

[ZapX]

I got some inside information that a new chapter could be out very soon...

[planet news]

Tokpile, can you design a 200 Proof logo? It needs to be appropriately epic.

Wow, okay, so I checked out Tokpile's stuff and oh my god it is awesome.

Continue.

[BrikHaus]

200 Proof

Chapter 11: Black Betty

Place: Earth
Time: 2008

Stepping out of the jetway, and into the airport terminal, BrikHaus smiled. The long flight across the Atlantic Ocean was over. He was greeted by cool air, and the bustle of people. He looked around at the various signs, recognizing the familiar Latin letters, but not recognizing how to read them in the French language. It didn't matter. He would learn. He adjusted his duffle bag on his shoulder, and walked away from the gate. As he did, a beautiful woman caught his eye. She was tall, blonde, curvacious, and reminded him of a summer day. Ah, to only know her name. He smiled at his ridiculous thoughts, and looked away.

"Excuse me? BrikHaus?" a lilting female voice, laced with a delicate French accent, called out.

BrikHaus turned and saw the blonde woman walking toward him. He found his eyes drawn to her tightly fitting red sweater. But as she approached, he forced himself to look up. He blinked dumbly at her, forgetting to respond. "Are you BrikHaus?" she asked again, now standing directly before him.

He nodded his head and replied hurriedly, "Oh, y-yes, that's, m-me."

The woman presented her slender hand, and BrikHaus gave it a gentle shake. She smiled warmly and said, "I'm Betty. I'm here to pick you up."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm from Le Cordon Bleu. I'm here to pick you up, and take you to your apartment."

"My apartment?" BrikHaus asked, dumbfounded. Late yesterday evening BrikHaus had left the tournament in a whirlwind. He boarded the first direct flight to France that he could find. He hadn't even bothered looking for housing. He just assumed he would live in a hostel or a soup kitchen or a park bench until he was able to locate something more permanent.

"Why yes. Le Cordon Bleu takes the utmost care of its most promising young chefs."

"Listen, I really don't understand what's going-"

Betty placed her hand against the back of BrikHaus' arm and turned him. He made an about-face, and found himself pointing down a long hallway toward the main part of the terminal. Betty gave him a small push, and propelled him down the hallway. She walked alongside him and said, "Oh, don't worry. Everything will make sense soon enough."

When they exited the airport, BrikHaus saw a stretched black limousine idling by the curb. He stopped and turned to Betty. "Is this for us?"

She smiled warmly, a beautiful smile that made his heart ache, and gave him a churning feeling in his stomach. She stretched her arm forward toward the limousine and said, "It is for you."

"Really?"

"Yes, only the best for our top students."

"I don't understand where all this is coming from. I mean, I've never cooked a day in my life."

"Why don't we just go?" Betty asked with her sultry voice. She leaned forward and opened the door. BrikHaus couldn't help but look at her black skirt as she did so. When she stood and turned back to him, he hurried shifted his eyes upward again. He hoped she hadn't noticed him ogling her. A beautiful woman like herself was surely used to such treatment. On the other hand, being used to it and enjoying it are two different things. BrikHaus nodded his head in agreement, stooped down, and entered the limousine.

Betty entered directly behind him. As she pulled the door shut she uttered something in French to the driver. He gave a single nod of his head, and shifted the vehicle into gear. They pulled away from the airport, and BrikHaus looked out the side window. They maneuvered rapidly through the congested French traffic. The airport shrank in the distance. The farther away it became, the farther away 200 Proof seemed to him. His friends were still embroiled in the tournament. They needed him. But he needed to do this. He had to live up to the dreams of his father. Feeling pangs in his heart and tears behind his eyes, BrikHaus turned away from the window. Betty smiled at him and asked, "Is something wrong?"

He smiled back and answered, "No, I'm fine."

They arrived at The Eiffle Towers, an upscale housing complex in the heart of Paris. As they emerged from the limousine, BrikHaus looked up at the towering complex, and his jaw dropped open. The building was a shimmering marvel of modern construction, made of steel and glass, and tall enough to give an impressive view of the city. It was a beacon of modernity, and was strangely juxtaposed against the rich stonework of the ancient city. BrikHaus had only dreamed of living in a beautiful high rise such as this. But now it was about to become a reality. Betty gave him an alluring smile and entered the building, her hips swinging back and forth.

They rode the express elevator to the top floor, the twentieth, and proceeded toward the end of the hallway. They reached their final destination, one of the corner condos, number 14. Betty swiped a magnetic key card through the door lock, and the electronic lock's LED changed from red to green. There was a hard click, and Betty turned the door handle and pushed inside. The interior of the apartment was bathed in sunlight. Beneath their feet was hard wood, and it reflected the sunlight in such a way, that it made the entire floor shimmer. To the left was a beautiful, state of the art kitchen with granite countertops. Straight ahead was a fully furnished living room with fine leather armchairs and sofas, a giant television, and a grand fireplace. BrikHaus quickly went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was fully stocked with fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, and an assortment of other foods.

"Want anything to drink?" he asked with a smile.

Betty pointed to another refrigerator on the opposite side of the kitchen, "Check in there. It's the beverage refrigerator."

BrikHaus opened it, and found the right compartment stuffed from top to bottom with beer and soda. The left compartment, kept at substantially warmer temperature, housed a stunning wine collection. A tear came to his eye. He wiped it away, thinking of his former bandmates. If only they could have witnessed such a beautiful site. Undoubtedly, somewhere else in the kitchen he would find a large array of hard liquors. Win or lose the tournament, BrikHaus would invite Tokpile and Ornette here to celebrate his new course in life.

"This place is amazing!" BrikHaus shouted enthusiastically.

"But I haven't shown you all of it yet."

"What else is there?"

"Two large bedrooms and an office. Altogether, this condo 2000 square feet in size."

"I can't believe it."

Betty strolled seductively into the kitchen and closed the refrigerator door. She took BrikHaus by the hand and said, "Come, let me show you the master bedroom."

Until now, BrikHaus had been completely unaware of the many advantages a career in the culinary world had to offer. But now he understood why chefs were quickly becoming the new rockstars of the world. He nodded with a smirk, unable to believe his incredible luck. "Give me the full tour," he said.

Meanwhile, back in the United States, 200 Proof was stepping off stage. They had just defeated another band, The Killers. This victory had not come as hard or as well deserved as the one against The Rolling Stones. However, both Ornette and Tokpile had felt more pressure than before. If BrikHaus had been present, their victory would have been a quick and simple one. However, without their drummer, their opponent, a cliche and whiny rock band, had put up more of a fight. Fortunately, Tokpile and Ornette played a series of classic rock songs so powerful, they were able to emerge victorious.

As they reached the grass below the stage, Tokpile squeezed his right hand into a fist, and reopened it. He did this repetitively, feeling pain surge through his body. "I'm not sure I could have played the tambourine much harder," he started. "If this keeps up, either my hand will give out or I'll break my instrument."

Ornette shook his head, "With BrikHaus that would have been no contest. But he's not here any longer."

"Do you think we can win without him?" Tokpile asked.

"We can make it to the finals," Ornette replied as he absent-mindedly retuned his guitar.

"And then we'd have to face-"

"Fade."

"We should be able to beat him. After all, you beat him by yourself the day we met."

"That was a long time ago. And he's had a decade to improve his skills."

"Do you think we won't be able to win against him?"

"Only the Gods of Rock know the answer to that."

The two remaining members of 200 Proof continued their walk from the stage. Although they wanted nothing but the happiness of their former member, they also both wished he had been able to stay until after the tournament. Nevertheless, they couldn't stop now. They had to keep fighting, keep pushing forward. They had to win this tournament, with BrikHaus or without him.

As 200 Proof departed from the arena, Fade and the Ing Reminders took the stage. They had been placed in the opposite bracket, designed specifically by Shiro, so they would face off against one another in the final round. Fade was pleased by the new development of BrikHaus leaving the band. It would make things much easier to win when 200 Proof was down a member. He didn't care about beating BrikHaus or Tokpile. All he cared about now was defeating Ornette once and for all. If he could do that, no matter by what means, then he would be satisfied.

Fade looked across the stage at his opponents, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. He chuckled to himself. Shiro had indeed done an excellent job of setting him up against a number of pushovers. Fade grabbed the microphone and shouted, "You weak, pathetic fools! How dare you take the stage with me, a true legend of rock?!"

Springsteen and his bandmates ignored Fade, and finished tuning their instruments. He looked at the other members of his band and gave them a smile and a thumbs-up. They started to play. The drummer went first, pounding on the drums and crashing the cymbals. Then, the other members joined in. Finally, Springsteen fired up his guitar and began to croon the lyrics of his song, "Born to Run."

As they played, the crowd became jubilant. Cheers and adorations of love for the long-time rockers filled the air. They played with a lightheartedness that imbued a sense of fun and wonder amidst all who heard the song. They increased the volume and ramped up the intensity. They audience grew ever more excited, and women began to throw their bras onto the stage. The men clapped and song along.

Fade shot an evil look toward the crowd. How dare they enjoy any music but his own? He felt a searing anger well up from inside of him. He would not be shown up by anyone, especially not someone like Bruce Springsteen! Fade turned and faced his own band. "Are you ready, you maggots?"

They nodded affirmative.

"Then let's go!" Fade growled. He spun back around to face the audience, his hair whipping across his face. Suddenly, there was an explosion of music behind him. They were playing a song off of their new album, entitled, "Sit On It and Spin." Fade arched his back and wailed in a voice pitched so high, that it cracked the glass of all the stagelights. They rocked harder and faster and louder than Springsteen and his band. They drowned out their opponents with disgusting, chauvanistic lyrics. As they did, the crowd quieted, distracted and confused. Usually, the opposing bands in this tournament traded songs. But Fade had been impatient. He rudely interrupted his opponents, ready to crush them so no one could derive any enjoyment from them. As they continued to play, however, the crowd got into the rhythm and were soon jumping up and down with excitement, and many of them were forming a mosh pit.

Springsteen and his band played with all their might, but they could not overcome the energy and tenacity of Fade and the Ing Reminders. They were becoming overwhelmed. Fade outstretched his gangly arm toward his opponents, and pointed his middle finger upwards at them. He growled the disturbing chorus with all the hate he could muster, "Sit on it and spin! Sit on it and spin! You're the worst, you'll never win. So put my balls on your chin, and then sit on it and spin!"

A hundred mainframe computer suddenly materialized around Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. They were the kind from the 1960s with large round tapes, card readers, and randomly blinking lights. They clicked and whirred and beeped. Springsteen and his band members looked around in confusion. They were completely surrounded by the massive computers. What was going on, they wondered. As Fade's band played faster and louder, the computers began to tremble, smoke, and turned burning red. The machines were overheating. And then, Fade grabbed his guitar and performed a wild solo of all the songs by The Cars! As he did, the computers exploded simultaneously. Springsteen and his bandmates were hit were burning shrapnel. They screamed out in pain. But it wasn't over yet. From within the destroyed machines, a cloud of tiny back dots swarmed outward. They looked like insects, but were in fact nano-machines. The nano-machines locked onto their targets. They swarmed over Fade's enemies, grappling onto their skin, and absorbing it! They were whittled down to the bone. When the nano-machines were finished, all that remained of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were skeletons. As one final blow, the nano-machines exploded, decimating the band's instruments. Nothing remained.

Fade laughed maniacally and completed his guitar solo. He looked toward the audience, arms raised high as he waited for their applause. He was met with stunned silence. They must have required prompting, he thought to himself. He yelled into the microphone, "Who is the greatest rocker of all time?!" Still, there was no response.

Fade felt a surging heat rise up from his stomach. Why the hell hadn't these idiots answered him? He narrowed his eyes, and screamed menacingly into the microphone, "I said, 'Who is the greatest rocker of all time?'!" This time the audience responded with a timid, "Fade." It was at that point Fade realized they were silent only as they were in awe of his sheer rock prowess. After all, he knew that he was the greatest musician to ever live. His years of training with the monks had proven that. He threw the microphone onto the stage, and it banged hard against the wood. The deafening, high-pitched feedback caused the audience to cover their ears and wince in pain. Fade turned away and laughed as he descended from the stage.

The next day, BrikHaus found himself in one of the large kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu. Betty had graciously spent the night at his condo, and showed him the way to his first day of culinary training. Once he arrived, she departed to attend to her work in the institute's front office. However, just before she departed, she slipped a handwritten note into his hand, expressing her desire for them to spend more time together tonight. BrikHaus slid the note into his pocket, and beamed uncontrollably.

He stood awkwardly in the kitchen, wearing a white apron, and feeling ridiculous as he tried to put on an oversized chef's hat. He didn't seem to notice that there were no other students in the large kitchen. As he struggled to look the part, a door opened and a greasy man with slicked back dark hair and a pencil-thin mustache strode into the room. He sauntered over to BrikHaus' cooking station. Instinctively, BrikHaus stood at attention. He had not secured his chef's hat, and it tipped to one side and tumbled off his head, floating to the ground.

"Are you BrikHaus?" the man asked in a thick French accent.

"Yes, sir," BrikHaus replied.

"I am Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre, and you are my student."

"Oh, I see. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you," BrikHaus said with a smile. He extended his right hand in a gesture for a handshake.

Pierre looked at BrikHaus' hand and then back up at his student. Scowling, he shouted, "The great Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre does not shake hands with his students. A maggot such as yourself does not have the right to even stand in the presence of an amazing chef such as myself. In fact, don't even look me in the eye, you dog. Is that understood?!"

BrikHaus looked down, shaken and terrified, "Yes, sir."

"Very well then. Now, for your first lesson. You will exit this kitchen and wash the car of the incredible Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre. Is that understood?!"

"Um, sir? How will that teach me anything about cooking?"

"You do not question the authority of your one-of-a-kind instructor, you disgusting piece of phlegm! Do you understand me?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get to it!"

BrikHaus hurried outside and found Pierre's all black Mercedes. The car sparkled pristinely in the sunlight. A bucket, sponge, and dry rag were nearby. It looked as if the car had already been washed today. Probably by another one of his students, BrikHaus thought. As he dipped the sponge into the bucket of tepid water, his ears exploded with the commands of his teacher. "Do not use dirty water! Get a fresh bucket!"

"Yes, sir," BrikHaus replied, and scurried over to a nearby water pump. He looked at it, uncertain what to do. He craned his neck around, looking for a modern faucet. He saw nothing but this antiquated hand pump. Meanwhile, Pierre was standing next to his Mercedes, arms folded over his chest, and his brow furrowed. The man looked as if he was about to explode. BrikHaus wondered if he should ask the question that was on his mind. At first he thought not to, but then decided, he had already been yelled at, so things couldn't get much worse. "Sir? Is there a water faucet around here? Or just this pump?"

"Just a pump?!" Pierre screamed. "Of course there is just a pump! Do you think real chefs are lazy enough to stoop to having their water delivered to them? Of course not! You have to work hard for everything! If you don't sweat, then you aren't really working! Is that understood?!"

"Yes, sir," BrikHaus replied sullenly. He filled the bucket with fresh water, and returned to the Mercedes. He dipped the sponge into the clean water, waiting to hear Pierre yell something else at him. Pierre said nothing, only stood by watching him. BrikHaus pressed the sponge against the top of the driver's side window, and watched as water streamed down the side of the car. What was the point of all this? Was it some kind of training like Mr. Miyagi gave to the Karate Kid? Or was this guy an incredible jerk with nothing better to do than make his students wash his car? Either way, Paris no longer seemed so glamorous.

An hour later, when the car was clean and dry, BrikHaus arched his aching back. Pierre inspected the vehicle closely. "What is this?!" he shouted. "There is a smudge of dirt on the windshield! I told you to clean this car, you worm! Do it again!"

"The windshield?"

"No, the entire car! Is that understood?!"

"Yes, sir," BrikHaus answered wearily. He proceeded to the water pump to begin anew.

Another hour later it was noon, and the summer sun was beating down. BrikHaus was drenched in sweat, and his body was racked with pain. He finished the second wash, and stepped away from the vehicle. Pierre inspected it, and this time found nothing about which to complain. "Very good," he said. "Now come inside, and I shall teach you something."

Finally! BrikHaus thought with a smile. All he needed to do was prove he could work hard, and then this nutcase would teach him to cook. The two men went back inside. The large kitchen was still empty, and BrikHaus had still failed to notice that he was the only student. They walked to BrikHaus' cooking station, and Pierre opened one of the drawers. He pulled out a small metal device, and slapped in on the counter. "This is a potato peeler. Have you used one before?"

"Yes I have."

"Good." Pierre extended his arm and pointed to a large brown door at the far east side of the kitchen. "Go to the store room and peel one thousand potatoes. Is that understood, you lizard?"

"Um, lizard isn't much of an insult, sir."

"IS THAT GODDAMN UNDERSTOOD?!" Pierre screamed, his entire head turning bright red.

"Y-yes, sir," BrikHaus said, as he headed toward the store room.

The remainder of the day consisted of BrikHaus peeling potato after potato. Pierre stared at him intently as he scraped the brown skin from each vegetable. As each hour passed by, the stack of discarded potato skin scrapings in the trash can grew larger and larger. By the time he finished, the counter was filled with a mountain high mound of skinned potatoes. BrikHaus looked at a clock hanging on the wall, and it read: 7:38 PM.

"Are you finished yet?" his instructor asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, throw all this away. Be sure to be here tomorrow at 8 o'clock sharp. Your extraordinary teacher Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre will teach you something else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

BrikHaus cleaned up his station, and then departed for the evening. Once he was gone, Pierre opened his cell phone, and pushed the first number on his speed dial. He waited as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Then, someone answered. "What is it?" a crass voice asked on the other end of the line.

"Your plan is in motion, sir," Pierre said.

"How is it going?"

"Excellent. His will shall be crushed completely in a matter of days."

"Good. Keep me informed."

Pierre snapped the flip-phone closed. Things were going smoothly so far. He was glad the Master was pleased. At this rate, BrikHaus would be destroyed, and he would still have time to make a trip to the United States where he could watch the finals of the rock music tournament. Pierre began to laugh maniacally in his French accent, like a cartoon villain, in the giant empty kitchen.

Meanwhile, the remaining two members of 200 Proof were sitting in a booth at a nearby bar. It was the same bar they had gone to a few days ago when Ornette had become catatonic. Tokpile looked to the seat adjacent to his. That was where BrikHaus had sat when he received his acceptance letter to Le Cordon Bleu. It was only a few short days ago. And now their band had been split apart, their chances for pure rock fusion torn asunder. He sighed and shook his head. "What are we going to do, Ornette?"

"We can't give up now. We've come so far in this tournament. We need to keep pushing through."

"But without BrikHaus there's no way we'll beat Fade."

Ornette lowered his voice an octave and narrowed his eyes, "We'll defeat him, I'm sure of it."

Tokpile felt tears welling up behind his eyes. "To come all this way," he blubbered. "Just to get beaten by that guy a second time. I don't know how I can go through with it."

"We'll beat him."

"But not without a drummer. We need someone to play drums for us."

"Tokpile, let it go," Ornette assured him.

Tokpile nodded his eyes, sniffed, and wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

"Oh no, the boy is quite right," a sinister voice said from across the room.

Tokpile and Ornette looked up. A man dressed in a guady black, orange, and yellow t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off was sitting at the bar. He slowly turned his body around on the bar stool to face them. With a quick flip of his head, he flung his long black hair out of his face. It was Fade. He continued, smirking and speaking with an arrogance unlike any other, "There is no way you can beat me."

He stood up and approached their booth. The jukebox suddenly died, and the commotion of the patronage ended abruptly. It was like a typical saloon scene in a Western film. The crowd watched him intently, waiting with nervous anticipation to see what he would do. As he sauntered over in his skin tight leather pants and black combat boots, he sneered, "Get a new drummer. Get two new drummers. Hell, get an entirely new band. The fact is, no matter what you do, you'll never win."

"I could defeat you right now," Ornette said, suddenly standing upright.

Tokpile grabbed Ornette's shoulder and pushed down, "Calm down, man. You don't want to battle right here. Think of all the innocent people that might get hurt."

Ornette clenched his hands into fists, and his body trembled with rage. Fade chuckled and said, "Listen to your small Asian friend. He speaks the truth. If we were to fight, lots of innocent people would get hurt. People like you."

"Bastard," Ornette spat, as he made a motion toward Fade.

Tokpile grabbed Ornette's arms with both hands, and pulled so hard he drew him back to his seat. "Don't do it!"

"Save it for the battle. It's only another two days until the finale. I'm sure we'll meet there. And then I can beat you properly. Later, bitches." Fade whirled daintily back around and laughed heartily. His diaphragm rumbled, and he threw his head back. He strode back out of the bar, unable to control his laughter. He hadn't even bothered to pay the bartender for the drink he had ordered. Not that celebrities ever paid for anything. Once he had exited, the jukebox magically resumed and the commotion of the patronage returned. It was like nothing had happened.

"You see?!" Tokpile whispered with a tinge of excitement and anxiety. "We need someone else with us! We need BrikHaus!"

"He's gone, we have to accept that."

"What about getting a new drummer? There are plenty of bands who were eliminated who would be happy to help us out."

Ornette shook his head and replied sullenly, "I wish that were possible. But there is only one drummer in this world who could keep up with your tambourine expertise and my guitar playing. And he's gone."

Meanwhile, back in France, BrikHaus had awoken to a new morning. He had spent another wonderful evening with Betty, and he was beginning to have strong feelings for her. He turned to the opposite side of the bed and reached out to touch her. He found her side of the bed was empty. It was tousled as she had slept there, but the sheets were cold. She must have left some time ago. BrikHaus turned and looked at his alarm clock. It was only five minutes to seven o'clock. His alarm would go off soon. He turned it off, and got up, ready to get on with his second day of culinary training.

When he arrived at Le Cordon Bleu, he found Pierre waiting for him. As soon as BrikHaus entered the room, Pierre unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor. BrikHaus took a step back, horrified. Pierre took a step out of his pants, which were in a hump around his ankles. Fortunately, he wore a pair of boxer shorts to cover the rest of his body. Pierre pointed at the pants on the floor and boomed, "You shall adjust the length of Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre's pants, and you shall do it immediately!"

"Sir?" BrikHaus asked, still with a look of surprise on his face.

"I bought these pants at the boutique yesterday, and I do not like how they fit. I refuse to take them back to do adjustments, as I am far too busy and important to do that. So you shall do it for me. Is that understood?"

"I don't know the first thing about sewing," BrikHaus pleaded.

"You also don't know the first thing about cooking," Pierre countered. "Now get to work!"

"Yes, sir."

BrikHaus spent the entire morning measuring, pinning, remeasuring, repinning, and sewing Pierre's new pants. As there was no sewing machine to be found in the kitchen, BrikHaus was forced to make all the adjustments by hand. It was a grueling process, and his fingers ached by the time he finished. He tried not to think about it, but he wondered when he would get to do actual cooking. When the pants were finished, Pierre put them back on, and looked himself over. He used the reflection from the pristine stainless steel refrigerator. He nodded in approval, not to BrikHaus but to his own reflection. He turned to the clock and saw it was now ten minutes after twelve o'clock.

"I'm famished," he began. "It is the job of all my students to prepare me lunch. However, since you are not yet worthy to cook food for the fabulous Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre, you shall have to purchase it for me. There is a small bakery on the south corner of this street. Bring me a baguette."

"A baguette?"

"Yes, it is what all French people eat."

"I know what it is, sir. But is there a specific type you would like?"

"Just make sure that it is delicious. And you shall pay for it with your own money. Now go. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

BrikHaus departed, his own stomach aching from hunger. He would buy two baguettes, and eat one for his own lunch. He would have to hurry, though, because he was certain that Pierre would not want to be kept waiting long for his food. He felt lightheaded, hardly having any time to regain his energy from the arduous work he had already been through.

The moment he departed, a door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened. Betty walked in. Pierre turned and smiled at her. "Ah Betty, my sweet, beautiful girl. How are you today?"

"Pierre, I need to talk to you," she said, with no humor to be found in her eyes.

"Yes, of course. What is it?"

"It's about BrikHaus."

"Yes, yes," he chuckled to himself. "He's such a fool. And so far the Master is pleased with what I've done for his, um, training."

"I know. But Pierre, don't you think what we're doing to him is . . . wrong?"

"Wrong? Wrong?! Of course not? How could it be wrong?"

"We're manipulating him. You're not going to teach him how to be a chef, and his friends are going to lose that tournament. We're ruining all three of their lives."

"Nonsense. The only life that is important is the Master's."

"I don't know what to do. This feels so wrong."

"Betty, Betty. Don't worry about it so much. Come now, I'm sure you'll feel better soon. Once we humiliate him and kill him, you'll forget all about him. Don't you agree?"

"I . . . I guess so . . . I don't know."

"Well, you'd better leave. He will be back soon. We'll talk more later."

Betty nodded and left.

BrikHaus arrived a few minutes later, chewing on an oversized piece of bread, which had been crammed in his mouth. In his arms he carried a large baguette, which Pierre immediately snatched from his hands. He took a bite and savored it. He continued to eat, giving no thanks to BrikHaus for buying his meal or fixing his trousers or washing his car. After he had eaten a third of the large loaf of bread, he turned to BrikHaus and said, "Today you shall have your second cooking lesson."

BrikHaus swallowed the last morsel of food in his mouth, and stood at attention, ready to continue his learning.

"In the cold store room we have celery. I want to you bring back 5000 stalks, and chop them up."

"5000?" BrikHaus asked with disbelief.

"Yes. And chop them finely. I am going to use them in my soup tomorrow night. If they are not chopped to my exact specifications, you shall have to chop another 5000 stalks. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." BrikHaus responded while thinking that Pierre must love celery.

Hours later BrikHause found himself exhausted. His hands ached, his arms and legs pulsed with fire. His feet felt as if sharp nails were poking through them. He wearily brought the large knife up and down, up and down. When he finished cutting up a stalk of celery he robotically pushed the pieces away, grabbed the next stalk, and started over. It was now almost midnight. BrikHaus was in a fugue, hardly aware of what was going on. But still, he had to press on. He had to complete the task so Pierre could make his celery soup. He strained to raise his head to look at the clock. It had taken him 12 hours to cut 4999 stalks of celery. Since Pierre would be having his soup tomorrow night, BrikHaus was satisfied with the knowledge he had finished the task with plenty of time to spare.

He moved his eyes down and examined the final stalk of celery. With the methodical precision he had used all night long, he chopped this final piece into fine bits of celery. When his task was complete, he let the knife fall from his hand. It clattered to the floor, and BrikHaus' body swayed woozily. "I'm done," he gasped.

A few moments later, the kitchen door slammed open. Pierre stormed up to the kitchen counter. He surveyed the mound of celery bits piled up on the counter. "Done already? All 5000?"

"Yes, sir."

"Impossible. Let me see." Pierre moved around to BrikHaus' side of the counter. He shoved the aspiring chef out of the way. He stumbled backward, but somehow managed to stay upright. Pierre picked up a piece of chopped celery and held it up to the light. The celery pieces were indeed cut perfectly. How was a beginner able to complete such a task? And in such a short amount of time? The Master would not be pleased by this. He had to do something. Pierre turned and flung and handful of celery bits into BrikHaus' face. "Terrible! Absolutely terrible! These piece are not chopped finely enough for Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre' soup! Do you want me to choke on this celery, huh?!"

"Well," BrikHaus started, and then let his voice trail off.

"What was that?!" Pierre screamed, his face turning bright red with anger. "I'll kill you for that!"

"Kill me?"

"Guards!" he screamed.

Suddenly, four burly men stormed into the room and surrounded BrikHaus.

"W-what's going on?" BrikHaus asked with disbelief. He couldn't be certain what he was seeing was real, or if it was a hallucination from his sleep deprivation.

As the four guards grabbed him, Pierre grumbled, "I was supposed to let you live long enough for you to watch 200 Proof lose to the Master at the rock tournament. You would have been humiliated, and lost the will to live. But I can't stand you. I'm going to move the time table up and kill you now!" Pierre reached down and snatched up the knife that BrikHaus had let fall to the floor. He moved forward, aiming the weapon for BrikHaus' neck.

"Stop it!" a woman's voice shrieked from the other side of the room.

Pierre turned around and saw it was Betty. She brandished a knife of her own, pulled from one of the many drawers of the kitchen. "Get her!" Pierre shouted. Two of the burly guards raced toward her, knocked her weapon away, and grabbed her by the arms, as well.

As they dragged Betty closer to Pierre, she kicked furiously and screamed, "No, I won't let you do this!"

"Come, come, my dear," Pierre said in a soothing voice. "You knew all along this is what the Master wanted. Why are you fighting it?"

"The Master?" BrikHaus asked, his head reeling from exhaustion and confusion over this new turn of events. "Betty? You knew this was going to happen? What's going on?!"

"BrikHaus! I'm sorry!" Betty sobbed.

Pierre had the two of them held down on the wide cooking countertop. They struggled to break free, but both were overpowered by Pierre's burly guards. He pulled his cell phone out from his suit's inner jacket pocket, and flipped it open. Pierre set the device to speakerphone. He pressed the speed dial button and waited. It rang twice. When it was answered, BrikHaus thought the voice on the other end sounded familiar.

"What is it?" the voice asked with an undertone of annoyance.

"We have a problem, Master. The girl has betrayed us, and my culinary protege no longer wishes to cook."

"Where are they?"

"Here. I have both of them. Given this unforeseen turn of events, I felt it prudent to eliminate them a bit ahead of schedule. And I felt it was important to call and let you listen in," Pierre said with an evil gleam in his eye.

"Very well. Kill them," the voice said non-chalantly.

"Wait a second!" BrikHaus shouted, squirming more as Pierre raised his knife. "I don't understand what's going on! Why do you want to kill me? Who are you people?"

The voice through the speakerphone was clearly amused by BrikHaus' desperate pleas. "You mean you don't recognize the voice of your old friend?" As he spoke, Pierre hesitated. He did not want to kill the Master's prey while he was speaking. It would be incredibly rude. Still, he held the knife high, ready to strike and kill BrikHaus at any moment.

"But . . . it can't be." BrikHaus gasped with disbelief.

"Yes that's right. It's me, Fade."

"You bastard! How could you have set this up?"

"Have you forgotten who I am? I am the Master, after all." Fade burst into laughter. As he calmed himself a few moments later, he continued, "I am the richest, most powerful musician on the planet. There's nothing that I can't do. I set this whole thing up."

"But how did you know about my father's dream for me to become a chef?"

"You idiot! We grew up together, we played in NERVs of Steel together. Don't you remember? I know everything about you! Enough delay. Pierre, kill him!"

"But why would you do this?"

"That's simple! For the sole purpose of destroying 200 Proof!"

Pierre answered Fade in the affirmative and raised his knife even higher. He waited a moment, and scouted for the proper location to stab his enemy. A blow to the neck would kill him instantly, while a wound to the stomach would give him a slow, tortuous death. Decisions, decisions. While he decided what to do, Betty cried out for help. It didn't matter who it was. Someone. Anyone. As long as some person barged through that kitchen door, she would be happy.

"Ornette! Tokpile! Help us!" BrikHaus screamed.

Meanwhile, back in the bar in the United States, Ornette and Tokpile were passed out. They had been drinking heavily throughout the day. They were both slumped over the table, with sixteen empty bottles of whisky haphazardly strewn throughout the booth. A fine layer of drool had pooled on the table, collecting from their open mouths. It was in the early morning hours now, and the bar was closing down. There were very few patrons remaining.

Suddenly, Ornette's head shot up. He had heard it. A voice. It sounded like BrikHaus. He snapped his head left, right, looking for him. But he was not here. Ornette's head pulsed with the pain of too much whisky. He clasped the sides of his head, trying to subdue his headache long enough to realize what was going on. BrikHaus was in Paris. But he heard him calling out for help as if he was in this very room. Had it been a dream? No, he was sure of that. His friend was in trouble.

Ornette grabbed Tokpile by the shoulder and shook him awake. Tokpile snorted, and drunkenly asked, "Wuz goin' on?"

"Grab your tambourine. BrikHaus is in trouble."

Tokpile didn't understand what Ornette meant by that, but if a member of 200 Proof was in trouble, Tokpile would do anything to help them. The two musicians pushed out from the booth and produced their instruments. Tokpile shook his tambourine, and tiny droplets of whisky flew out in all directions. Ornette gave a single strum over all the strings of his guitar. They were ready.

"He's in Paris, at Le Cordon Bleu, right?" Tokpile asked.

"Yes."

"How are we going to get there?"

"We'll need to rock-teleport," Ornette said with determination.

The two men burst into song, playing "Band on the Run" by Wings. But they played it with speed, intensity, and urgency. They rocked it hard. As they played, the ground began to tremble. Other drunks who had passed out in the bar awoke and looked at the musicians quizzically. The room shook more and more furiously. Ornette straightened his arm and whirled it in a 360-degree motion, and each time he dropped his arm, he slammed a chord on the guitar. Thunder exploded overhead, and suddenly, a bolt of lightning crashed through the ceiling of the bar and careened into 200 Proof. The two men were electrified, and a moment later, they vanished. The bar was left in an eerie silence. All that remained was a charred floor, and wisps of smoke.

Back in Paris, Pierre had decided. He would stab BrikHaus in the stomach, and then slice him all the way up to his neck. He would do the same to Betty. And when he was finished, he would prepare them, and sell their meat as the finest prosciutto. He brought the knife careening down. Fade laughed maniacally over the speakphone.

Suddenly, there was a rumble and a crash. The entire room was alit in a brilliant white light. The floor shook. Pierre was sent stumbling back, and the burly men that held BrikHaus and Betty captive lost their grip. The light dissipated, and in the middle of the large kitchen stood Tokpile and Ornette!

Pierre regained his composure, but the guards were still stunned. Pierre rubbed his eyes as the remnants of the bright light vanished. He recognized them instantly. 200 Proof. The enemies of the Master. All three of them were here, in his kitchen. If he could kill them all, then the Master would be pleased. He would have no choice but to praise Pierre's good work and lavish fame and wealth upon him. Pierre brandished the knife once more, ready to strike.

"Ornette! Tokpile! You guys are here!" BrikHaus shouted.

The two guards nearest to him lunged forward. BrikHaus kicked out his legs, and his feet collided with their faces. They reeled backwards, and BrikHaus jumped from the kitchen counter. He flung open a cabinet and hauled out a pair of large cooking pots and two metal ladles. He raced to the sides of his friends.

"What's going on?" Ornette asked, as he surveyed the scene.

"These guys all work for Fade. They engineered our break up, and planned to kill us all."

Ornette nodded toward Betty, who had been recaptured by the guards. She squealed and struggled to break free, but could not overpower the burly men. "Who's she?" he asked.

"That's Betty. She was in on it, but she turned against them. She's my friend. We have to help her," BrikHaus said.

"Forget all of that nonsense, right now!" Pierre shouted. "You think you can defeat the Master? That's inconceivable! In fact, the sublime Jean Pierre Phillipe Pierre will kill you right now! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!"

"Yes, sir," BrikHaus replied with a sly grin and he readied his makeshift instruments.

"Attack!" Pierre shouted. He raced at them from the right, knife outward, and the two guards who had subdued BrikHaus attacked from the left.

200 Proof launched into a rendition of "Black Betty" by Ram Jam. A shockwave of pure rock energy pulsed outward in all directions. The musical vibrations of their instruments had enough force to knock their opponents backward. As they played on, Ornette shredding guitar, Tokpile jangling tambourine, and BrikHaus banging pots, the entire kitchen began to rumble. The cabinet doors from around the room opened up, and all the pots, pans, measuring cups, mixing bowls, whisks, and chopping blocks flew outward. They slammed against their opponents mercilessly, keeping them pinned against the ground. Next, the drawers flung open, and all the cutlery launched into the air, flying at their opponents like sharpened missiles. The guards who held down Betty ducked in fear, barely escaping an unpleasant death. Once freed, Betty scrambled away from the kitchen countertop where she had been held. She ran to 200 Proof, and stood behind them, cowering. Although her heart raced in fear, she was simultaneously thrilled at what was occurring. Never before had she witnessed such an expression of true rock and roll.

Pierre and his cronies managed to get back on their feet, and tried to rush 200 Proof. But the power of cooking was no match for the power of rock. BrikHaus performed a blazing ladle and pots drum solo, and as he did, the store room's door slammed open, and a thousand cans of refried beans, peas, green beans, corn, pineapple, and tomatoes exploded. The mess of food sprayed their opponents. They were blinded by burning pineapple juice, and slipped on greasy refried beans. They hit the floor hard, moaning in pain. The three members of 200 Proof played together once more, and as they reached the final notes of the song, all of the chickens kept in the cold store room flapped their featherless wings and flew out. They circled Pierre and his men like vultures, and then dive-bombed them. They slammed into their enemies' faces, forcing raw chicken juices down their open mouths. They were infected with particularly nasty cases of salmonella. Pierre and his men struggled hard to keep their bowels in check but they could not. They raced off in search of the nearest toilet. The song ended, and the raw chickens flopped lifelessly to the floor. The world's biggest food fight had ended.

"Oh, BrikHaus!" Betty cried as she raced into his arms.

"Are you all right?" he asked, embracing her.

"Yes. And I'm sorry about everything."

"Why did you do it?"

"At first it was just another job, no big deal. But after I met you, I knew I couldn't go through with it. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Of course. It's okay."

BrikHaus then turned to his friends and smiled, "Thanks for saving me."

"Anytime," Ornette replied.

"How is the tournament going?"

"We're still in it," Tokpile answered. "And we have a position open for a drummer if you're interested."

"Why not," BrikHaus shrugged. "There's nothing for me here."

"Nothing?" Betty asked, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Well, you can come with me if you like," BrikHaus offered.

"I would love to," she beamed.

"Then let's do it!" BrikHaus said. "Let get back and win that tournament!"

The three members of 200 Proof shook hands and nodded confidently at one another. They had faltered momentarily when BrikHaus left them, but now they had returned to their full strength. Not only that, but they had managed to acquire their first fan in the process. They readied their instruments once more, and burst into song. They rocked out another version of "Band on the Run." The earth shuddered once more, and the lightning came again. They were electrified and instantaneously transported across the planet. They had rock-teleported back to the United States. Back to the tournament. Where a confrontation with Fade was inevitable.

[Sailor Star Dust]

Something tells me if all goes well, Betty will become the future Mrs. Haus.

Amazing update, as usual.

Now beat that evil Fade!

[UrsusArctos]

Rock-teleportation and hot female fan. And Brik gets to have her, too.

Keep bringing on the hilarity, doc. I love where this is going.

[fadingreminder]

I retreat from my hibernation for the moment to say this is awesome. Another job well done and I can't wait for more!

[BrikHaus]

For anyone who is still reading this, my apologies for taking almost a year to provide the next chapter. I had a relatively slow week, which allowed me to time to write. I felt bad leaving 200 Proof hanging for so long, but now they're back. This concludes the Tournament Arc of the story.

--------------------

200 Proof

Chapter 12: Paint it Black

Place: Earth
Time: 2008

It was now the semi-final round. 200 Proof was poised to take on their opponent, legendary rock band Styx. The day before, all three members of 200 Proof had returned just in time for the quarter-final match. They were pitted against Radiohead, whom they defeated easily. The bizarre amalgamation of guitars, drums, and pseudo-electronic music was no match for the pounding fury of 200 Proof's unadulterated rock and roll. Now, with Styx, they were uncertain how the match would go. With so many classic rock songs, their opponents seemed formidable. However, with determination and hard work, 200 Proof emerged from the battle triumphant.

As Styx took the stage, the audience erupted with enthusiasm. The band gave a quick wave, and readied their instruments. Next, 200 Proof ascended to the platform. As they did, the audience went quiet, save for one person, Betty. She was in the front row, and jumped up and down, jubilantly cheering on the band. Despite their progression throughout the tournament, they had still been unable to acquire a fanbase.

Ornette tuned his guitar with a fast twist of his wrist. Tokpile held his tambourine to his ear and jingled it. He nodded approvingly at the sound it produced. BrikHaus gave a quick one-two-three beat on his drums. They reverberated to his liking. They looked at one another, ready to begin. Simultaneously they turned their heads toward Styx.

Styx met their eyes and knew the battle was about to begin. The band leader turned around to his fellow band members and said, “Let's go!”

In the back, their keyboardist hit the keys hard and fast. 200 Proof looked around at one another, shocked. It appeared that Styx wasn't going to waste any time. They had already leaped right to their crowd-pleaser. As the keyboardist banged away on the keys, 200 Proof desperately thought of what they could play to counterattack against this behemoth of a song, “Come Sail Away.”

A few moments later, the singer came in with his crooning. As he did, the audience cheered and began to sing along. This was not good. Things were indeed looking bleak for 200 Proof. Any time the audience sang along, it was a sure sign of victory. And then, even worse, audience members began to wave lighters around in the air. 200 Proof had to do something, and fast.

“What should we play?” Tokpile asked, looking to his fellow musicians.

“I don't know anything that could pull the audience away from this song,” BrikHaus said, looking distraught.

“I know what to do,” Ornette said, his affect flat and stoic.

“What?” Tokpile asked. “What song can top this one?”

“Simple,” Ornette said. “Come Sail Away.”

“What? But they're already playing it,” BrikHaus said, his voice tremulous now.

“True. But they're not playing it 200 Proof style,” Ornette answered, with a sly grin appearing on his face.

All at once, the other two members understood what Ornette had meant. Even though Styx, the originators of this song, was playing it now, 200 Proof could improve upon it. They had the unique ability to turn any song into a powerhouse of rock. A newfound look of determination burned passionately in the eyes of BrikHaus and Tokpile. The three musicians readied their instruments. They held their breaths, and waited. They had to jump in at just the right moment.

Two and a half minutes into the song, the drummer for Styx began to pound the drums. The tension built higher, higher, and higher still. Any moment now 200 Proof would begin. The guitar and bass began to play. They played together, harder and faster, reaching a crescendo as the singer wailed, “But we'll try the best that we caaaan… to CAAAARRRRYYYYY ON!” Now, a blast of high-voltage rock, drums, guitar, tambourine crashed with power and enthusiasm. The energy of the song reached new heights, and the audience cheered with elation.

Styx played harder and faster, but for a moment it sounded as if no music emanated from their instruments. They looked across the stage, dumbfounded. 200 Proof was jamming hard, so hard that their instruments had completely overpowered Styx's. 200 Proof had just stolen the song out of Styx's hands!

Determined not to be beaten, Styx continued to play and sing in the hopes they could wrest control from 200 Proof. They played louder and harder and sang with more intensity.

Come sail away!
Come sail away!
Come sail away with me!

Feeling a surge of power from across the stage, 200 Proof knew they had to play even harder to push back against their opponent.

As they continued to rock hard, strange images appeared above the stage. First, an image of the ocean, and a lonely ship navigating treacherous waters. Then, a captain appeared. He looked remorsefully toward the sky as visions of long lost friends and lovers whisked by him. The music intensified on both sides of the stage now, and the images became larger and more vivid. Angels descended from heaven and whirled around the ship. The captain looked up and marveled at them with open arms.

At the five minute mark, the Styx guitarist launched into an incredible guitar solo. The ocean above became stormy, and rain began to drench 200 Proof. Lightning crashed around them. A mighty wind swirled around 200 Proof. Styx continued to play, refusing to relent. A hurricane materialized and blasted 200 Proof.

Ornette and Tokpile braced themselves against the gale-force winds, as they slid backwards across the stage. BrikHaus' drum set was heavy enough to keep him locked in position. As they were assaulted with the rain, wind, and lightning, Tokpile gritted his teeth and said, “Ornette, we need a guitar solo to match theirs!”

Ornette gave a quick nod and then looked up at the mass of hurricane clouds above them. He knelt down, and, with a mighty pump of his legs, launched himself into the air. He jumped directly into the hurricane! The force of the wind was much stronger here, and kept him airborne. He was drenched from the torrential rains, yet he continued to play. Lightning blasted across the sky. Ornette studied it, waiting for the next bolt. When he saw it, he quickly raised his guitar over his head and caught it with the guitar! The electricity zapped his guitar, and the lightning bolt that was etched onto it began to glow. His body shook with power, and his long black hair stood completely upright. Ornette shredded guitar harder now than ever before, giving a solo so powerful, so moving, that it made both the audience and Styx weep with joy.

Come sail away!
Come sail away!
Come sail away with me!

As he played, the storm clouds dissipated, and something new appeared. It was no vision like before, but the real thing. The Angels transformed into aliens, and their starship descended from the sky. It hovered above the stadium, bright alien lights flashing and glowing. The audience cheered at the arrival of Earth's new intergalactic friends. Ornette completed his solo and 200 Proof played the final chords of the song together. When they finished, Ornette's body slowly descended to the stage. His long black hair fell to his shoulders once more. He took off his glasses and held them up to the light. They were covered in water spots. He wiped them clean on his shirt.

Styx meanwhile, had lost all interest in the rock tournament. A solid blue beam of light appeared on the stage. Everyone looked up to see that it was originating from the alien ship. At the bequest of the aliens, the members of Styx entered the blue light, and were teleported aboard the spacecraft. The alien ship hovered for a few moments, and then shot off into space.

The stage fell silent. 200 Proof looked out at the crowd, who was bewildered. A minute later they smiled and cheered. Shiro clambered onto the stage and shouted, “Let's hear it for our finalists, 200 Proof!”

Ornette, BrikHause, and Tokpile looked around at one another. They had done it again. And now all that remained was the final battle, against Fade.

Two hours later, the stage had been reset for the other semi-final battle. It was to feature Fade and the Ing Reminders against heavy-metal music group Metallica. In the minutes leading up to the battle, Metallica arrived. Each band member pulled up to the concert stadium in their own personal limousine. The following events happened simultaneously, almost as if they had been rehearsed, in order to exude the band’s stature and importance. The drivers of each limousine quickly got out, ran to the back, and opened the rear passenger side doors. The band member inside snapped his fingers, and within seconds a retinue of personal servants carrying a sedan chair appeared. The band member was carried by the driver into the sedan chair, and then hauled up to the stage. At no point did any of Metallica’s band members have their feet touch the ground. When finally on stage, the members of the band slapped each other on the back, and congratulated one another for their greatness. Their instruments were tuned by their servants and then placed into their hands.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the stage, roadies were hauling up the equipment for Fade’s band. One roadie was attempting to heave up the drum set, when Fade happened to walk by.

“What are you doing?” Fade snapped at him.

The roadie, bent at the knees, looked up and answered, “Hello, Mr. Fade. I’m just trying to pick up this drum set and get it on stage in time for the show.”

“Well, you’re lifting it all wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, yes. You’ll never get anywhere doing it that way. Let me tell you how it’s done.”

“Of course, sir.”

“First, stand up straight. Next, bend over at your waist, keeping your knees locked tight. Lift with your back, using all your strength. If you still can’t get it, then make sure to twist at the hips, and you’ll be sure to get it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Good, now do it right this time,” Fade ordered. As he walked away, he heard the snap of the roadie’s back, as he injured himself with Fade’s advice. As Fade climbed the stairs to the stage, he could not help but smile. It was the little things that made life worth living.

On stage, Fade looked across at his opponents. Metallica stood there, instruments in hand, and talking to one another about their accomplishments. Their servants preened them, fluffing their hair, applying eye shadow, and spraying on orange-colored spray tan. Fade crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head disapprovingly. How could these bastards have made it this far? He couldn’t believe he had to share the stage with these so-called musicians. They weren’t rockers. They were jokes. The more he stood there and stared at them, the more his hatred grew. Anger seethed in his veins, his heart pounded in his chest, and his muscles clenched tight. He stared at them, with daggers in his eyes, unblinking for nearly two minutes. When he could take it no longer, he grabbed his guitar and shouted at them, “Metallica! You posers! Prepare to listen to some real music!”

The roadies had not yet finished hauling up all of the band’s equipment. In fact, none of the Ing Reminders had even shown up. It was just Fade and his guitar against Metallica. Fade didn’t care, though. He knew he had enough raw musical talent to beat the foursome without breaking a sweat.

Fade smashed a chord and began to play. Metallica snapped to attention, as if they had no idea what was going on. Their servants hurried off stage, and Fade’s opponents started to play as well. Despite looking like they were playing hard on their instruments, nothing could be heard. They had become fat and complacent with their age and money, and the true spirit of rock had abandoned them. Their instruments would not produce any music. They were nothing more than money-hungry drones, and the Gods of Rock do smile upon those types of “musicians.”

Fade shredded guitar, his back arched, and his guitar behind his head. He had decided to bring a quick and humiliating end to his opponents by playing “In a Gadda da Vida” with the speed increased by 300%. As he did so, a number of circus animals suddenly materialized above Metallica. Everything was there from elephants to giraffes to tigers to pandas to hippopotami. The animals were suspended in mid-air by nothing but the rock and roll fury of Fade’s guitar. The animals’ eyes darted back and forth, and they made all sorts of frightened moans. Metallica looked up with fear in their eyes. They tried to play even more frantically, but the music wouldn’t come. And then, for the coup-de-grace, Fade played his guitar with his teeth. The animals let loose a terrible cry, and loosened their bowels. Gallons upon gallons of shit dropped onto Fade’s opponents.

As Metallica was doused with brown rain, Fade laughed uncontrollably. The audience, those who had shown up by now, gasped in horror. The animals dematerialized from the sky. The members of Metallica dropped their instruments and began to cry. Mid-wail they turned and ran off stage, forfeiting the contest. “Pathetic,” Fade spat as they scurried away.

He stepped forward and grabbed the microphone. “Where’s 200 Proof?! I want them right now! Get up here so I can finish you off, once and for all!”

As he shouted angrily, Shiro appeared and tried to calm him down. “Fade, you have to wait. Think about the money! If you have the final battle right now, we won’t get paid nearly-”

Fade shoved Shiro to the ground and growled, “I don’t care about that! I just want to destroy them!” He turned back to the crowd and continued, “Where are you, cowards? Ornette! BrikHaus! Tokpile! Get out here right now! If you don’t show your faces, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

There was a collective gasp amongst all audience members, Shiro, the roadies, the TV crew, and Fade himself. They all turned to the opposite side of the stage where Ornette stood. His long black trench coat blew around his ankles in the ever-so-slight breeze. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and he narrowed his eyes at Fade. He took a step forward. Fade remained silent, his mouth agape. Ornette took another step forward and repeated, “You’ll what?”

“I, I, I’ll, uh, um, eh, er, uh…”

Another step forward. Ornette’s gaze was like a pair of lasers burying deep into Fade’s soul. Another step. And another. Each step closer, Fade took one back. He continued to blubber, still shocked back this new development.

Shiro gathered himself, and rose up. He swiped away the dust from his white suit and then put on a false smile. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need for any of this right now. Let’s save it for the scheduled time. Then we can have our final round match, and we’ll all walk away richer.”

They didn’t hear him.

“Why don’t we finish this? Right now,” Ornette said.

As he took yet another step, Fade reached backward with his foot and found nothing but air. He craned his head around and saw he had reached the end of the stage. There was nowhere else left to go. Ornette reached behind his back, and produced his lightning bolt-etched guitar out of thin air. He gripped it tightly in his hands, and moved closer to Fade. They were now only a mere three feet apart. Ornette could see sweat rolling down the sides of Fade’s face. He could smell his fear.

“What do you say? For old time’s sake.”

Fade gulped hard and finally eked out a few words. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

“I’m ready now,” Ornette replied, tightening his grip around the neck of his guitar.

“No,” Fade responded, feeling a bit of his old, arrogant energy return. “If we do this, we’re going to do it the proper way. With our bands. We have to follow the rules.”

“Since when do you care about rules?”

“Since now I have the chance to crush you and the rest of my former band,” Fade said, his villainous blood flowing once more. He now had both feet planted firmly on stage, and he straightened his back. His composure returned, he felt surer of himself.

“Fine,” Ornette said. “Get ready.”

An hour later, the stage was set. The animal shit had been cleaned away. The instruments of the Ing Reminders had been set up. Everyone was there. Fade, his band, Ornette, Tokpile, and BrikHaus. Night had descended upon the venue, and the air was cool and crisp. With the exception of the low hum of electricity, the stadium was silent. TV cameras were on, and poised over the arena. Tonight the entire world was watching. Fade, this world’s foremost musician was taking on an unknown band in the final round of the greatest tournament of all time.

Shiro took to the stage, microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the final round of The World Wide Battle of the Bands!” He paused for a moment as the crowd cheered. When they settled down, he continued. As he spoke, he went through his speech robotically. All that he could do was go through the motions externally, while internally he was counting all the money he had made. To him, he didn’t care who won the tournament. He was already a very rich man. “Tonight, for our final matchup we have rock legends Fade and the Ing Reminders! And their opponents, a true Cinderella story, small town heroes 200 Proof!” As he announced the contestants, the crowd cheered uproariously for Fade, and there was nothing but a murmur of surprise for 200 Proof.

As Shiro continued on, BrikHaus looked into the crowd. In the front row, Betty flashed him a big smile, and blew him a kiss. She had bought the three bandmates each a bottle of Caol Ila to drink before the performance. 200 Proof didn’t need the alcohol to win tonight, they were spurned on by their desire for revenge, but on the other hand, it didn’t hurt to have some on board.

“And so, without further ado,” Shiro said. “Let the battle begin!”

He hopped off stage, and there was silence. He first thought was there was some kind of technical malfunction. He would fire whoever was at fault for this! Every second of silence could mean TV viewers tuning out, and less money for himself! He turned back around and looked up at the stage. To his surprise neither band was playing! They were locked in an epic stare-down; BrikHaus, Tokpile, and Ornette, all against Fade. “Play something,” he thought. “Come on, someone play something!”

On stage, Ornette was nearly blinded by fury. As he looked into Fade’s horrible face, all he could think about was the loss of the last 20 years of his life. It had all been taken away by this man. This egotistical maniac. But tonight, 20 years of pain and suffering would end. He raised his arm high, and then brought it down, starting to rock.

200 Proof started out by playing “25 or 6 to 4” by Chicago. A blast of pure musical energy immediately crushed against Fade and his band. He gave a quick nod, and they played back using one of his original songs. As Fade and the Ing Reminders played, they emitted their own blast of musical energy. It rushed forward, pushing back the one generated by 200 Proof. The two musical forces were equally matched, and a stalemate was soon reached.

200 Proof switched to “Hush” by Deep Purple. Fade switched to another one of his original songs. Simultaneous bursts of energy shot out. 200 Proof’s was the color of golden whisky, and Fade’s the same color as his black heart. They played hard and fast, each musical group wanting to dominate the other. They each continued to play, but neither made any headway in the battle. They were evenly matched.

200 Proof was beginning to feel desperate. Things were not going as well as they had hoped. Each band member knew it would be a tough battle, but they had not expected a stalemate. Fade played harder and faster than ever before. 200 Proof had trouble keeping up. Little by little, the black wave of energy inched toward 200 Proof. If it hit them, they knew it would be all over. Fade’s musical prowess would be too powerful to overcome. They decided to switch to an old standby, Led Zeppelin. They chose “Communication Breakdown.”

After they changed songs, the golden whisky colored energy pushed the black colored energy back to the middle of the stage. For now they were evenly matched again. Sensing this, Fade told his band to switch to another original song, one that was yet unreleased, titled, “The Greatest.” At first, there was no change in the musical energy waves. But as Fade wailed his lyrics, his power began to overtake that of 200 Proof.

“I’M THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME. DON’T YOU KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE MINE? I’LL CRUSH YOUR HEARTS, I’LL MAKE YOU BLEED. I KNOW JUST WHAT YOU NEED. THEY LIKE TO DRINK BOOZE, BUT I’LL TELL YOU WHO’S… THE GREATEST. IT’S ME. NOT THEM. IT’S ME. NOT YOU. OH BOO HOO. YOU’D BETTER CRY, 200 PROOF. CUZ FADE’S THE GREATEST!”

As he continued to scream out his lyrics, his black energy wave took on a life of its own. It hurtled forward. As it rushed toward 200 Proof, Ornette shouted, “Here it comes, hold firm!” They played with all their might, with urgency, with passion. Nevertheless, the golden whisky energy was obliterated, and then, 200 Proof was engulfed in blackness.

On stage all that could be seen was Fade’s band on the right, and a murky cloud of darkness on the left. It swirled around and around, and doubled in size every few moments. As Fade and the Ing Reminders continued to play, all hope seemed lost for Ornette, BrikHaus, and Tokpile.

Within the black cloud a turbulent storm raged. Rushing winds, thunder, lightning, hail, screams of pain and horror all accosted 200 Proof. Worse still, the sound of Fade’s song blared louder than the elements, a sickening reminder of his arrogant, evil power.

All three members of 200 Proof clung to BrikHaus’ drumset. They held on with all their might, as their feet were lifted up. The black storm attempted to suck each of them in. If they lost their grip, they would be sucked into the void and never be seen again.

Ornette squeeze his eyes shut. A memory flashed within his mind. The hospital room. The beeping of the telemetry machine. The tinny radio squelching out Fade’s music. One year. Another. And soon, twenty. The memory flashed away as quickly as it came. Ornette opened his eyes. He had to do something. He couldn’t let it end like this. Not again. He hadn’t come all this way, endured so many trials, just to let Fade beat him at another Battle of the Bands. His grip on the drumset tightened and he felt a power begin to grow from deep within his heart.

“What do we do now?!” BrikHaus shouted.

“It’s all over!” Tokpile exclaimed.

“Not yet… we have… one more chance,” Ornette groaned.

Outside, Shiro was counting his money. He thumbed through a few bills, looked up at the ever growing black cloud, and then leafed through a few more. He heard a crackle. He looked up and the murky cloud had suddenly changed to a solid black shell. “That’s strange,” he thought. The object held his focus. As he watched it, he saw a number of jagged white cracks appear on the outer rim of the shell. More and more cracks. They grew longer and wider. Bits of white light began to stream out from them. “What the hell?” he said and trailed off.

On stage Fade could not believe what he was seeing. He was certain he had defeated his enemies. But now, what was this new development? He shouted at his band to play like they had never played before. He too, dug deep and played his guitar with a skill unmatched on this planet. But it wasn’t enough. The cracks on the shell grew ever larger, and multiplied exponentially in number.

A sound emanated from within the shell. It took a few moments for it to reach the ears of the audience, but once it did, it was unmistakable. It was music. It was the sound of The Rolling Stones’ “Paint it Black.” The audience started to cheer. As their jubilance grew louder and louder, Fade became more and more desperate.

“They’re cheering for 200 Proof! Why aren’t they cheering for me?!” he muttered.

Suddenly, the shell exploded! Chunks of the black evil energy flew outwards in all directions. In mid-air each chunk became enveloped in white light and then dissipated. Where the shell had been, now stood 200 Proof clad in shimmering white clothes. They rocked with diehard energy and speed. Behind them hovered the ghosts of The Rolling Stones. The legendary rock band was infusing 200 Proof with their ghostly-alcohol powers. As 200 Proof had consumed them in liquid form earlier in the tournament, they were now unleashing that previously dormant power. The decades of partying, alcoholism, and rocking-out were bestowed upon 200 Proof, the only band to defeat them. And now, all that pure rock and roll energy was blasting outward, directed at Fade and the Ing Reminders.

A powerful rush of wind slammed into Fade’s band. Their instruments, except for Fade’s guitar, were blown away. They screamed out in fear. Fade held fast, gritting his teeth, and playing his guitar with more ferocity than ever before. He cut his fingers on the strings and they started to bleed. But it wasn’t enough. 200 Proof had become more powerful than he could have possibly imagined.

“Paint it Black” continued and a large swirling vortex, a black hole, materialized to the far right of the stage. Fade looked up at it with a dumbfounded expression. The vortex swirled faster and faster, picking up the Ing Reminders. They flew off into the distance, and were swallowed whole. Still, Fade hanged on. He tried playing his other original songs, and when those failed he played cover songs. None of them were good enough.

“Fade, prepare yourself,” Ornette said.

“No, no, this can’t be! It’s impossible! How can you beat me?!” Fade cried.

Then, all at once, the three band members shouted, “Because we are 200 Proof!”

They gave one final blast of musical energy. It was enough to knock Fade off his feet, and send him flying into the sky. As he was pulled toward the vortex, his body flipped over and over again. He screamed as he was sucked into the vortex. As he entered the crushing event horizon, his screams were distorted to the sound of a toilet flushing. The crowd laughed and cheered at the demise of the world’s once-greatest rocker. When he was gone, 200 Proof ended their song. The vortex closed to a mere pinpoint of light, and then exploded. A torrent of whisky rushed at the audience, and even more whisky rained from the sky. The crowd cheered even more excitedly.

Ornette, Tokpile put down their instruments. BrikHaus stood up from behind his drums. The audience now chanted their band’s name like a mantra. “TWO-HUN-DRED-PROOF!”

Ornette looked at his bandmates. Tears were in Tokpile’s eyes. A large smile was on BrikHaus’ face. They rushed to Ornette and wrapped their arms around him. He blinked dumbly for a moment, unsure what to do. What was this strange emotion he felt? Was it happiness? He supposed it was. It had been ages since he last experienced it, and it took him a while to get used to the feeling once more. As he became used to it, he joined their embrace.

“We did it!” Tokpile shouted.

“We beat him!” BrikHaus joined in.

Their embrace came to an end and Ornette smiled warmly at his friends. He gave them a single nod. No more words needed to be spoken. He looked up at the sky, and let the warm drops of whisky rain upon him. It was a cleansing rain. One he had waited 20 years for.

Betty came onto the stage and said, “Congratulations, guys!” She handed a bottle of Caol Ila to each of them to celebrate their victory. They cheered and toasted to one another and to their hard fought battle. Meanwhile, Shiro bounded onto the stage and gave a speech about their tremendous job-well-done, but 200 Proof hardly heard him. For now, their entire world encompassed their triumph over evil. They continued to celebrate throughout the night, and into the next day. They had done it. They had won.

[THE Hal E. Burton 9000]

FINALLY

though I think you only updated this now because of Muggy's story getting all the recent attention, it's still nice to see this back