Un2Dead (Book One of the Un2Series)
Chapter Twenty

“Well, how do I look?” Conan raised his arms slightly and spun slowly to the right a half turn then back again. He took his seriously shiny, open-to-the-waist satin shirt by the collar and gave it a tug, pulling it tightly against his neck. He noticed the clasp on one of his gold chains had worked its way around to the front and was resting against the gold yin-yang medallion it supported. He snaked it back to its proper position and re- presented himself to his audience of three.” Pretty nice, huh?”

“Why are you so dressed up? Never mind that. Where did you get that outfit?” Wit asked while pretending to shade his eyes from a blinding light.

“It was out in the van. I had just done my laundry and was on my way to the gym when I decided to follow you guys. Pretty lucky, I’d say.”

“Oh. No, we’re the lucky ones,” Gary corrected with a poorly stifled laugh.

“You’re too kind!” Conan blushed, oblivious to the sarcasm.

“If we’re through with the red carpet, I would like to remind all of you what we are trying to accomplish tonight. We don’t know what DeLeon may know, if anything. This is a longshot at best.

We don’t know if he knows anything about the Ouroboros ritual or anything even associated with it. I will tell him my fabricated story about my illegal reptile trafficking and the threats against my family and whatever else I can come up with in order to get some kind of useful information out of him. You guys need to play it cool and let me do most of the talking. Everyone on board?” Wit acknowledged each of them with a nod.

“Can I ask for an autograph?” Conan produced a mint condition album jacket from Deleon’s only hit record and showed it to the guys, holding it with two hands, the back of it pressed against his chest.

“As long as he seems to be in a good mood. The last time I saw him was just after I had lost his rare black market viper. For all I know he is planning on decking me.”

“What if he doesn’t know anything? What will we do then? We don’t know what’s going on with you. You can’t seem to get ahold of Reese. It’s freaking me out! You know what happens when I get stressed. I shed. I shed a lot!” Gary started panting.

“We’ll just have to take this one step at a time. Reese is probably lounging around and ignoring her phone. The worst thing that has happened to me is a rough ride on the porcelain bus. Everything will work out fine.” Wit patted Gary on the head. He quickly pulled his hand away once he realized what he was doing. Gary indicated that it was acceptable this time.

Joey looked at his watch then tapped its face. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to keep our rock star waiting.” He headed toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to Gary and yelled, “Shotgun! “and bolted for the van.

“Dammit, Joey! You know I like to ride with my head out of the window!” Gary darted after him.

Wit looked at Conan and shook his head. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this sideshow?”

“Absolutely! “ Conan tucked his album cover under one arm, pulled Wit under the other and ushered him to the van.

A shaft of light projected from the open double doors on the side of the van, creating an illuminated welcome mat on the asphalt. Wit stood in the doorway and peered into the white shag carpet coated interior of the van. It was like looking into a portal to the nineteen-seventies. Joey and Gary had opted to give Wit the privilege of riding shotgun, choosing instead the comfort of the lemon yellow Naugahyde bean bag chairs that lay scattered around the back of the van. Joey pushed himself deep into the chair forcing the tiny Styrofoam beads inside the pleather mound to form to the shape of his backside. Laying his head back, he observed his doppelganger mimicking his every move on the ceiling of the van. He surveyed the décor that surrounded his reflection. Pillows covered in fluorescent orange fur lined the perimeter. Wall sconces fashioned from lava lamps glowed with undulating lime green globs, each one growing brighter as they sank toward the base and darkening as they floated to the top. The soapy smell of incense lingered in the air. A signed, mint condition poster of Farrah Fawcett sandwiched between sheets of Plexiglas hung from chains over white plastic milk crates filled with albums and 8-tracks at the rear of the van. Joey now realized where he had seen Conan’s hair style before. Joey examined the signature. It read “To Leslie, Love, Farrah.”

“Nice poster! Who’s this ‘Leslie’ chick?” Joey pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Um, that would be me.” Conan corrected.

“Oh, of course you are! I forgot. I’m so used to us calling you Co…” Joey stopped short of using the nickname they had jokingly given him. Wit glared at him over Conan’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. I know you guys call me ‘Conan’. I don’t get it. I don’t even have big red hair.” Silence spread across the other three vanmates as they tried to look anywhere but directly at Conan.

“I’m just keeedink!” Conan said in his best Schwarzenegger accent. He slapped Wit on the back hard enough to knock him off balance. The three laughed nervously.” But really guys, I would prefer that you call me Leslie.”

“Les it is!” Gary replied.

“I said call me Leslie. ‘Les’ sounds like I’m small. Less of a man. I am definitely ‘more’, if anything.” Conan’s voice cracked near the end of his short rant. ”Sorry, childhood issues. My therapist says I’m making progress.”

“Sorry, Leslie.” Wit put his hand on Leslie’s shoulder. ”We were insensitive jerks. Guys being guys.”

“Yes, you were. But now you know. If you do it again I’ll kill you.” Everyone laughed, except Leslie. The laughing abruptly stopped. Leslie winked and the tension broke. “Don’t we have a rock star to see? We better hit the road.”

Just shy of twenty minutes had passed when the van pulled up to the gates of the compound. Fieldstone pillars covered with ivy flanked either side of an ornate wrought iron barricade adorned with a time-worn family crest, much of the detail lost to the unrelenting extremes of east coast weather. A blue-green patina washed over the sculpted mythical winged felines that presented the circular center shield that once contained the emblems symbolizing bravery and honor. The shield now acted as a frame for a large flat screen monitor that played a continuous loop that alternated between concert footage and information about the grand opening of “DeLeondia,” heavy metal’s answer to Graceland. Lying on the pavement directly below the screen was an offering of stuffed animals and bouquets of red roses left by a handful of adoring fans. Leslie pulled the van parallel to the screen trying his best not to run over any of the offerings. Despite his excellent driving abilities he did squish the toes of one unfortunate teddy bear. He leaned through his window and pressed the call button beneath the screen.

“Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order?” A voice interrupted the audio to the film clip of DeLeon performing at the Berlin wall with an actor best known for running in slow motion with other actors portraying lifeguards.

“Excuse me?” Leslie was easily confused.

The film footage abruptly changed to a live feed from a security camera within the foyer to the mansion. DeLeon himself was standing at the intercom holding a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand and a quart of soy milk in the other. He took a bite of the sandwich and took a swig of milk to wash it down. He leaned toward the microphone and acknowledged the camera.

“I never get tired of doing that! Anyway, is that you Witmoore, you snake losing S-O-B? I don’t remember you being so Fabio-like.”

Leslie blushed. Wit leaned past him toward the window.

“No. No. Here I am. This is Leslie, a friend of mine.” Leslie waved.

“I thought you were coming with that Joey guy.”

“He’s here too, along with our friend Gary.” All four heads were now awkwardly jammed into the driver’s side window. Three of them were waving.

“Well, aren’t you a special little cluster? Witmoore, I was expecting two of you. Only two can come in. The rest of your entourage needs to wait outside or in the gift shop just inside the gate. Pick out something nice for yourself, my treat. I’ll send someone to let you in.” DeLeon reached toward the camera and flipped a switch. The concert footage returned and the wrought iron panel the monitor was on began to move to the left.

Leslie backed the van up a bit to realign it with the entryway. Before proceeding through the gate he jumped out of the van and scooted the teddy bears to the side in order to avoid making them plushy road kill. He re-entered the vehicle and pulled into the parking space closest to the door that wasn’t the handicapped space, even though it was well past the hours the gift shop would be open to the public. A tram normally used for the tour driven by a black t-shirt clad roadie pulled up alongside the van as the group disembarked. The word “Security” arched across his chest in silver gothic letters. Below that was an equally garish version of the DeLeon crest, this time containing the emblems replaced by the monitor on the gate. He loped over and unlocked the door to the gift shop and pushed it open. He returned to the cart and called to the foursome.

“I’m supposed to take two of you up to the house. Whoever that is, grab a seat somewhere in back.”

Wit and Joey plopped down on the black vinyl cushion that was barely wide enough for two adults. The tram had served a tour of duty at local amusement park in the “Little Lands” themed section of the park. Pastel shades of pink and blue were now smothered with multiple coats of black metal-flake. Airbrushed flames curled around the top of each car giving the illusion that they were snarling at each other. The roadie picked up a microphone and addressed the riders.

“Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. At no time . . . “Joey tapped him on the shoulder.

“We’re sitting right behind you.”

“Sorry. I’m just practicing for the big day. We open to the public in a few weeks and Mr. DeLeon expects us all to be perfect.” The roadie hung the microphone back in its saddle and began driving toward the house.

Newly-installed lamp posts lined either side of the freshly paved driveway leading up to the mansion. The pavement brought the tram to a set of marble stairs leading to a grand stone portico. Although the time worn entrance had been repaired and refinished, the true beauty of the opulent entry was marred by the replacement of the original limestone columns with clear glass cylinders rooted in cast metal bases that resembled studded dog collars. The verdant ivy canopy had been replaced with of a series of speakers that formed a vaulted ceiling covered with black perforated metal. At the center of this “gazebo from hell” stood a bronze that rivaled Michelangelo’s David. The figure was at least twenty feet tall, nude and generously proportioned in all possible meanings of the word. Two main differences between the statues would have been the moustache and the fact that David had a sling draped over his shoulder and this individual had a guitar slung across his back. DeLeon certainly did not have a self-image problem. Wit and Joey scooted out of the side of their tram car and ascended the stairs. The roadie maneuvered the tram around the circular driveway and headed back toward the gift shop to check on Gary and Leslie.

“Shouldn’t that thing have a fig leaf on it?” Joey pointed just above their heads.

“Maybe a palm frond. I mean, look at those coconuts!” Wit offered.

“Frond?”

“You know, a big leaf off of a palm tree. His junk is the size of coconuts. Get it? “Wit had a habit of explaining his attempts at humor.

“Well thank you, Mister Botany. And yes, I get it. It’s not exactly sophisticated humor. ”

The crackle of amplifiers being turned on migrated across the canopy. A fanfare of electric guitars churned quietly through the speakers at first but rocketed to ear-piercing in seconds as their volume knob was turned with a twist of the wrist. Flames ignited within the glass columns and swirled skyward as the cacophony continued. Braided orange plumes spun like tornadoes and licked at the inside of their

cylindrical containers. The sound of screaming guitars whirled from speaker to speaker as the flames danced a choreographed routine that followed them around the canopy. The fanfare climaxed with a series of power chords and bursts of flames. The final chord echoed through the compound. The flames extinguished with an abrupt “pop”. Wit and Joey applauded and whistled wildly. A microphone buzzed through the sound system creating a brief shriek of feedback followed by the sound of tapping and a very clichéd “Testing, one, two, test.”

“And that, my friends, is way fuckin’ better than a welcome mat!” DeLeon laughed heartily. The doors at the opposite end of the portico swung open to reveal the “man behind the curtain,” illuminated by a single spotlight, a microphone to his lips. He beckoned the two to join him as he turned and walked from view.

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