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Dead Air
short story
by Gary Starta
Horace Boone rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn. The radio host
fought to stay awake as the caller launched into a diatribe about his
Tuesday night encounter with a space ship in a Detroit suburb. No amount
of coffee in the world was going to peak the pompous moderator's
interest in bug-like creatures who navigated the universe in delta-shaped
spacecraft. Boone talked a good game, but he really wasn't interested in
providing a communion for those suffering fear and shame from alien
contact. He indulged his audience for two things only: market shares and a
paycheck.
The bigger the market shares, the bigger the paycheck. That's what
Boone told himself every time he had to deal with the blow hard who ran
the station, Freddie Tedesco.
Tedesco's plan to beam Boone's broadcasts all over America via an
extraterrestrial signal was hailed as marketing genius. The satellite
radio channel Visitations had recently set a media record for
subscriptions. It seemed listeners couldn't get enough of the format which
presented stories of alien encounters in a reality format. Much like Boone,
Tedesco's fascination with dollar signs and corporate power left him
little pause for alien encounters.
Boone and Tedesco were soul mates in a strange way. Both littered the
cosmos with arrogance and greed. Each thought little of repercussion.
To date, neither had been reprimanded by anything remotely resembling
cosmic justice. Boone did have to jump from one terrestrial FM music
station to another due to format changes. But like a cat he always landed
on his feet with a large bankroll protruding from his pockets and a
gorgeous girlfriend wrapped around his portly body. With satellite radio,
the chance of a format change was about as threatening as a conversion
to the metric system. Life was very good for Horace. Still, he could
not prevent himself from ridiculing his faithful listeners behind their
backs for their belief in ET. This dissatisfaction surged in Boone's
veins like a drug. And like any addiction, Horace had to answer its call
every now and then. Fortunately for Tedesco, Boone's off air rantings
about the sanity of his brethren never hit terrestrial airwaves. But
thanks to a satellite beam traveling at the speed of light, a cosmic
audience was able to suffer in silence to the sounds of Horace Boone. In
fact, they were receiving his transmissions loud and clear.
*
Freddie poked his head into the Boone's studio to give him a thumbs
up sign.
"Whatever you're doing, keep it up Boone. Time Magazine just called us
for an interview. They want to know how we're breaking every ratings
record in the nation."
Horace removed his headphones and forced a smile for his elated
general manager.
"Isn't this what you've always wanted my friend," Tedesco persisted
despite Boone's conservative reaction. This was one of the few times the GM had
ever seen his blabby DJ at a loss for words.
Tedesco knew Boone was a lot happier back in the days when he was
known as Horace Boone, the crazed buffoon, driving you home in the
afternoon. Those were Boone's rock n' roll days. The DJ didn't have a hard
time staring at his face in the mirror back then. He truly loved his job
as well as his audience. And he was about forty pounds lighter with a
thicker head of hair.
But just like the classic rock song, Dust in the Wind, would anything
really matter in the end?
"So what if you don't give a rat's ass about aliens," Tedesco told
him, with this format you're guaranteed ratings. Tedesco didn't have to
elaborate further. Horace knew the formula all too well: ratings =
your paycheck.
Freddie Tedesco had spent months analyzing market research to find the
best potential audience. Numbers don't lie, people do, he always
preached. The numbers told him a male audience between the age of 25 to 38
years of age was the target demographic. Market analysis said these men
wanted a forum which would present the threat of alien takeover as
reality. Freddie knew the FCC still had little control over satellite
broadcasting content; so what were a few hundred white lies? He now had the
numbers and a vehicle to distort reality. Tedesco launched a campaign
claiming his station wouldn't be afraid to broadcast what your
government doesn't want you to hear.
He hired the best science fiction writers to embellish the listener's
first hand accounts.
You've got to make the aliens more mean. Make them more insect like,
he would instruct his staff. The writers were only too happy to oblige.
Here they made enough money to quit their day jobs. As science fiction
writers, they often only made enough money to feed a parking meter. The
listeners thought the station sincerely wanted to shed light on a government cover up. Horace Boone had a hard time faking this sincerity. Fortunately, he always kept a few carafes of brandy around
to alter his perception.
It wasn't even noon yet and Boone was already craving liquid solace.
He had been hit by a one-two punch. As soon as Tedesco left his studio,
in popped his current sack mate, Sherry O'Connor.
"I thought I told you not to interrupt me during broadcasts, dear."
"I just stopped by for a withdrawal." Swinging her pocketbook and
prancing around in bright red stilettos, Horace can't help comparing
O'Connor to a call girl.
"How much do you need this time?"
"As if you don't know. Just about half a grand to buy some shoes and
new dress for the media publicity party we're going to this weekend."
Boone cringed. He had almost forgotten about the affair. His mind
flashed to a bunch of stuffed shirts in suits pretending to care about his
show. They would all be probably trying to hit on Sherry as well.
Horace tried to mask his disgust but Sherry was making it hard. The
5'4 strawberry blond with the hour glass figure was casting her eyes on
a studio poster.
It pictured a musician named Mars Samson. He had the look. He was hot.
Everybody knew this - including Horace. His mind flashed to Samson
inviting Sherry to a backstage meet and greet. There he would put the moves
on her. She would forget all about cranky Horace. The daydream
painfully concluded with the pair locking lips.
Boone muffled a curse. Sherry glanced away from the poster and asked
him what was wrong. But he couldn't share this fear. If she ever gets
the chance to hook up with Mars Samson, I hope he rips her tongue out,
Horace fantasized.
"Can't you confide in me, baby," Sherry persisted to the point of
annoyance.
Horace conceded. Attempting to dismiss his daydream, he began to tell
her about his last caller.
"Some chuckle head from Cranburytown, New Jersey is telling me how he
got his three alien buddies jobs as toll workers so they could spread
the news of their arrival."
"How much longer can I stand to bear this crap?" Boone didn't wait for
Sherry's response. "On top of this, the station manager is telling me
I've got to beef up the stories. So in essence, he wants me to manipulate
our reality format so the aliens are more menacing. I secretly wish
that just one of these stories would be true. Hopefully they would abduct
Tedesco and perform an alien autopsy on him while he's still alive."
"Sssh," Sherry interrupted. Waving her hand like a traffic cop, she
cast an icy stare at Horace. "Too much information, baby. Just learn to
deal. You can do that," she taunts. Sauntering up to Boone slowly, she
offered the only type of encouragement she could. However, it sounded
more like a threat. "You do want to keep me lavishly attired," she
whispered, snuggling her mouth against his ear. But all Horace could hear in
his head was the real world translation: If you do want to keep me as
your trophy girl, it's going to take a lot of cash.
Sherry repainted her lips with fire engine lip stick and left without
kissing him.
"You'll smear my makeup, sugar," she explained in her defense. For the
remainder of the afternoon, Boone was left alone to wallow in silence
and wonder what real love feels like.
*
Somewhere in deep space, energy is being converted into matter. A
small leak has connected two universes. Virtual particles, hidden in a
swirl of cosmic dust, have linked with a radio wave in one of the
universes. Toggling back and forth, matter dissipates and reforms until a
conduit is built. Slipping along what looks like the longest spider web ever
built, something heads for Earth in an attempt to maintain a
cosmological constant. Everything must be relative. Like matter and energy,
positive and negative forces must also exist in equal parts.
The satellite transmission shows the entity that the karmic scale is
deep in the black. A cloud of negativity must be dispersed. The
universe demands balance. Now is the time for retribution...
*
Friday Evening 6:15 pm (real time)
Freddie Tedesco is in his kitchen uncorking a bottle of champagne. He
is in the mood to celebrate his fame, despite the empty house he lives
in. Oh well, Freddie always was his biggest fan. He stepped on a lot of
backs to become a financial guru. But it was all worth it, he tells his
conscious. Soon he'll be dispensing advice on fame and fortune to a
national magazine.
The bubbly is sure going to taste good with the London broil sizzling
in the oven. Freddie unbuttons his shirt and shirks his shoulders to
release the week's tension from his back. But his obsession with business
still nags at him despite his best attempt to manipulate his
surroundings. All of his life has been about getting ahead.
He reflects upon his empty fireplace and decides to fill it with
kindling. Maybe then he can get one minute's peace from the voice inside his
head which has never allowed him total solitude. Because of the voice,
Freddie has never felt alone - even in an empty room. The internal
chatter has always provided ample company.
Unfortunately for Tedesco, the fireplace is not cooperating. Every
time he lights a match, a draft comes down the chimney's flu to knock it
out. Freddie finally settles on lighting a candle, but its flame is not
soothing. It flickers as if a gust of wind is blowing in his living
room. He goes into the kitchen to check on his meal and finds it requires
another ten minutes. Pacing the floor, the ambitious general manager
tries in vain to settle his nerves with a glass of the bubbly. But he's
still unable to resist the nagging voice in his head.
He sinks into a leather recliner and flips through the local paper to
check on his stocks. This is better, he sighs to himself. The numbers
have always been a great diversion to ease his guilty conscious. But
tonight, the conversation in his head refuses to lie dormant. The voice
is back with a vengeance. "Why didn't you spend more time with us
instead of that radio station," his ex-wife nags at him between the ticking
sounds of a wall clock.
Rumpling the paper in frustration, Tedesco fumbles for the chair's
lever to release its foot rest. While he eases back and sips at his drink,
something is making its way down the chimney. Unfortunately for
Tedesco, it isn't the bearded guy in the red suit. A creature, resembling a
giant arachnoid, is using its appendages like suction cups to scale down
the concrete encasement. When its descent is complete, it will quietly
prop itself upon the fire wood located directly behind Tedesco's black
easy chair, open its mouth, and dispense a twenty foot long tongue.
Slithering in silence the tongue climbs the back of the chair. Without
warning, it coils itself around Tedesco's neck and chest like a python.
The uninvited guest has finally turned the tables on the entrepreneur.
It puts a lethal squeeze on Tedesco much like the way the GM has put
the squeeze on his subordinates for the past twenty years. Freddie's
lifeless hand eventually releases the champagne glass it had been holding.
The tinkling sound of breaking glass proceeds the sound of dead
silence. The voices in Freddie Tedesco's decapitated head have finally stopped
talking.
The universe wasn't getting mad - it was getting even.
*
Friday Evening 7:20 pm (real time)
The hum of a blow dryer competes with the sounds of music blaring from
a boom box. Sherry O'Connor is in her bathroom prepping herself for the
media party. Dancing to a hip hop beat, her multi-colored hair flies
straight up from the gun-shaped styling assistant aimed at her head. The
hot air reminds Sherry of the old dolts who will be attending the bash.
Their withered and unkempt bodies sure as hell don't prevent them from
talking up a storm, she laments. Pausing to stare in the mirror, she
reminds herself of their wealth. Perhaps some kind of business or sexual
connection will present itself, she muses. The promise of fattening her
bankroll instantly lifts her spirits.
"A little green will do me good," she laughs out loud. She unplugs the
dryer and prances into the adjacent bedroom like a kid in a candy
store. Fixating upon a rack of dresses, she pulls out two backless garments.
Sherry carefully considers her two color choices (red and pink) as if
she were refinancing her house. Rejecting both, she playfully hops into
a royal blue velvet gown with a plunging neckline. "The old goats will
love this," she jokes to herself.
Sherry's cheer instantly begins to ebb as the doorbell chime plays
an instrumental sample of Rich Girl. "Who but Horace Boone would have
the brass balls to interrupt my narcissistic indulgence," she rants. On
the way to the door, she rehearses a curse for Horace. He has broken
the cardinal sin of arriving too early for their date. Her anger is only
tempered by the physical disgust she feels for him. He probably wants
me to have sex with him before the party. The vulgar idea causes her
to wrinkle up her nose and feign the act of spitting.
But Horace Boone is not standing on her door stoop. Sherry nearly
faints from shock. She is staring straight into the face of rocker Mars
Samson.
"Ms. O'Connor, Horace says he can't make the party tonight because
of illness. He has asked me to accompany you to the affair in his
place."
"What kind of musician talks like this?" Sherry's voice of reason
asks herself.
"And when the hell has Horace Boone ever thought about anyone
except himself?"
The nagging questions quickly dissipate like watered-down liquor.
Sherry's lust had gotten the better of her.
This is just too good to be true. I'm staring into the eyes of my
fantasy man.
Sherry hastily apologizes for not inviting Mars in. She again
excuses herself to leave the room. She comes rushing back in with two
cosmopolitans.
"I just want to thank you for rescuing me," Sherry blurts out upon
her return.
Samson's eyebrows tense. "Rescue?" he repeats.
"From the grip of Horace Boone, the crazed buffoon!" Sherry laughs
uncontrollably from her own joke. Her outburst almost causes her to
spill the cranberry-colored elixir on her white carpet. Samson's eyes
remain fixated on her bust.
Mars takes the drink from her hand and places it on nearby counter
top. His movements are surreal, like in a dream.
"You won't be needing that," he states flatly.
"You sure don't sound like Mars Samson," Sherry retorts with a hint
of intoxication. "But you sure as hell look like him!" Her high pitched
laughter was about as charming as a fingernails on a chalkboard. But
Mars stood there patiently, ignoring her shrill parrot-like squawking.
Without asking, he begins to kiss her neck.
Sherry feels like she's going to explode. She suddenly forgets all
about the party. One of her hands begins to unbutton Samson's trousers
while the other runs itself through his jet black hair.
After what seems the longest moment of her life, Samson's lips finally
meet with hers. Sherry closes her eyes, reviling in the warmth of a
tongue which now penetrates her mouth.
But for some odd reason, Sherry feels compelled to open her eyes. Is
this just some kind of daydream? Will I open my eyes to find Horace
Boone slobbering all over me?
Ecstasy and horror have just exchanged places. A grey skinned being is
thrusting its tongue into Sherry's pretty little mouth. She tries to
scream, but gags.
Big black, bug-like eyes stare into hers. These are not the eyes of
Mars Samson.
The strange tongue begins to tug at hers. In a moment, it will be
ripped from her head.
All the police will find is a blood-soaked carpet. Cosmic justice will
have cleaned up the rest.
*
Friday Evening 6:50 pm (a half hour in the past)
Horace Boone swore underneath his breath seated before the console
board in his studio. Dan the engineer had programmed the computer to play
previously recorded shows for the duration of the weekend. He was free
to go home. But he was trying to avoid the inevitable - his requested
attendance at the company's publicity party.
Repeated calls to Sherry's home phone and cell had resulted in voice mail.
Boone felt justified to break his date with O'Connor at the last
moment. His station was already at the top of its game. He had already
pacified a week's worth of callers. Why should he have to pander to even
more imbeciles at this stupid party? Acid began to churn in Boone's
large gut as he imagined Tedesco taking refuge in his mansion like it was
some sort of medieval castle. He gets to unwind all weekend, and I'm
the sucker who has to play the PR game.
"You're the sucker." Boone had heard a strange, raspy voice emanate
from his headset.
He removed the phones and peered nervously around the studio.
"Dan is that you? I thought you left."
Boone received no response until he put his headset back on.
"You're the sucker," the voice repeated.
Boone reasoned he was part of one Dan's practical jokes. He probably
put a tape loop together to continually repeat the phrase over the
sound system.
Boone's reassurance was short lived. A loud thud sent him leaping from
chair.
Slamming the studio door behind him, Horace exited the room and began
to run down a hallway.
Peering over his shoulder, the DJ noticed a large black shadow on the
hallway wall. The shadow was about to intersect with his.
The intruder grabbed Boone by the ankles causing him to stumble onto
the shiny, linoleum floor. Boone stared into the lacquered surface of
the tile which acted like a mirror. Its reflection revealed a monster. It was standing behind his fallen body.
Its bony hands fought to gain a hold of Boone's broad backside. But
the girth of Horace's rear exterior somehow managed to work in his favor.
Boone chugged away like a runaway train, eluding his pursuer by sliding
on his hands and knees.
An inner voice gnawed at Boone. It connected the appearance of the
creature was with the station's satellite feed. "Interrupt the feed and
you'll disable the creature," it said.
Still on his knees, Boone twirled 180 degrees and charged headfirst at
his six-legged attacker.
The impact was solid. The creature fell on its back. Boone raced for
what could be his final destination. He scurried like a bloated rat in
the direction of the control room. Boone's extra large shirt blew like a
cape behind him. He resembled a physically challenged super hero. But
he wasn't trying to save the universe. He only wanted to save himself.
Fortunately for Boone, the intruder had a hard time regaining its
balance from the fall. Horace would need every precious second the creature
lost. He was huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf after running the
equivalent of three car lengths.
A shrill cry stung Boone's ears as he rounded the corner. But Horace
ignored the scream using his attention deficiency disorder to his
advantage.
The control room should be the first door on the right, he told
himself. At least that's where he remembered it to be. He had only been there
once before when he and Sherry had sex in it.
Busting through the door, Boone could hear the patter of multiple
footsteps behind him.
He pressed a button labeled re-sequencing which plunged the room
into darkness.
He fell into a corner and began to pray for his life.
Horace Boone would not have sufficient time to make up for a lifetime
of religious indifference.
The re-sequencing button had only brought the satellite off line
momentarily.
As soon as the connection resumed, the large bug-shaped creature sank
its tendrils into Boone's blubbery flesh. They were off. But it wasn't
to see the wizard. The insect carried Boone along its conduit all the way back to its point of
origin.
Time and date: unknown
The ride was over as soon as it started. Boone felt himself floating
in the vast emptiness of space alongside his captor. It looked exactly
like one of the aliens an abductee had described on Visitations.
But this was no alien. And Boone wasn't really in a tangible form.
Somehow his abductor had managed to defy physics, converting Boone's
fat lump of mass into pure energy.
The being waited for the right opportunity to burst through a spiral
like doorway which reminded Boone of a wormhole.
Once on the other side, Horace converted back to matter. He found
himself strapped onto an operating table and at the mercy of the cosmos.
Boone was in a universe where ideas, fantasies and energy coalesced to
to form what looked like a half dozen living, breathing entities.
These entities were all standing over him. And each had a metallic
device in its grip.
In the background, Horace could hear the faint sound of his radio
station's ID being played. A moment later, the room was bathed in loud
static. There was nothing but dead air.
One of the beings braced itself. It looked like it was preparing to
stick a long, scalpel-like instrument in Boone's belly.
Horace began to scream in vain. The DJ would live a few more minutes. In this room, he was the alien. A cavity search and autopsy would follow.
Everything was relative.
THE END
Dead Air© COPYRIGHT 2006 Gary Starta.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
02/20/06
Related Category: Alien and UFO Art
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