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I still saw Claudia where I could, things getting hectic with both Mad Alchemy and Dante Street Massacre album coming out at the same time. I treasured every moment, each counting in the pack of blessings laid upon my back.
Playing back the work thus far, I tore myself away and into the world outside, The Sanctuary falling behind. I was lucky in a way. The clarity and quality of major releases rested entirely on my talents, but I got to set my own schedule.
Aside from the announced release date, the record itself is dependent on conditions in the studio. Seth was shockingly understanding of an artists’ obsession, one of the many advantages to creator-owned companies.
The suits really understood the process and weren’t just after a tidy profit. Double went for Seth, his wealth almost an accident. He had only ever had an honest intention to release the best music he could.
It was then time for me to drive into town, the place where all could be found, including coffee, sex, and conversation— only the latter of which held any appeal to me right then.
The stairs squeaked under what weight there was, my step light and precise, except when it really counted.
“Still open?” I asked Ana, once I’d descended into Shadow Realm Records.
“For you, always,” she said, marking my cheek with Sweet Noir lipstick.
Dashing back to the counter, she double checked her make up, making sure everything was still in place.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“A gift, for Claudia.”
“Getting serious, hey?”
“Definitely.”
“You’ve already collared her?”
“Over a month ago now.”
“Nice, she a good pet?”
“The best.”
“Well then, we’d better find something special.”
Leading the way to the back binds, she leaned long in the LPs and into her super secret stash. Customers could buy them if they could find them, but she didn’t make it easy.
She knew as well as anyone the joy of a new discovery. She really was a sweetheart.
“Here.”
From the back rows, Ana had conjured a mint condition first pressing of Giving Up Hope For Lent, the debut album by Boo Slim, known to his friends as Eduardo and to his students as Professor Hernandez.
Self-released on digital and vinyl, it was nearly impossible to find in almost any condition. Even ‘fair’ ones were going for upwards of $200 on eBay.
“Thank you, really, but I really can’t afford this,” I told Ana.
“It’s on the house.”
“No, I can’t do that, you could make a lot of money with this. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“Okay, how about a trade? You promise me first pressings of By Newton’s Britches! and The Smiler’s Revenge and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal.”
We shook on it, sealing the deal, both trusting the other’s word as much as our own. It was a beautiful moment of mutual understanding that was sullied by a bang.
“Hide,” I ordered.
Ana made for the back room as I slid the record back into place, while thinking that having free use of my hands was likely a good idea.
“Where is she?” someone shouted.
It sounded like an accusation. The inquisition feeling of the arrival was only amplified by the makeshift collar— the dog kind, not the fun kind— that was hanging around the man’s neck.
“Who?”
“Shut the fuck up. I know a witch owns this store! And that she does evil things. Where is she?”
“Break up with you, did she?”
“Ugh, no, I would never deign to touch such a she-devil.”
“She’s not here.”
“Liar. We’ll burn this place to the ground if only to flush her out so we can punish her!” the man shouted.
“No!” Ana objected, jumping from the back room.
“Ah, there she is, the Jezebel. Boys, burn the witch!”
Like magic, his goons appeared. They were all dressed in the country club dress-casual style of the truly evil.
Breaking into pairs, one duo seized me as two more began to splash everything in gas from gerry cans. The final set took Ana to the back room, one holding her while the other carried the gas.
The goon’s feet crushed under my boot like eggshells. His scream was cut short by my sharp elbow to the throat, guttural choking the new order of the day. Suitably distracted, his partner never saw it coming, my head smashing into his face like a wrecking ball.
He took two steps backwards out of pure momentum before he went down. The splashing ceased as the firebugs charged, meeting much the same fate as their brothers. It was an open question as to when they might see daylight again.
In a last-ditch attempt to stop me, one of the goons swung a record at my head, finding only my hand stopping his strike. Wrenching the vinyl from his grasp, I used the sturdy spine as a bludgeon. I hit him with strike after strike until his nose was flush with his cheeks.
Leaving him to think about what he’d done, I went to deal with the witch burning business.
