Kenny G Must Die- A Satire About Music... And Zombies: Kenny G Must Die!!, #1

By William Hrdina

The guy in the next cubicle listens exclusively to Kenny G. It's all Aliester Crewley hears at work, day after excruciating day. It's driving him mad. Music this bad can only mean one thing- something demon-ey is afoot. A powerful amateur magickian, Aliester knows how to deal with demons. But actions can have seriously unintended, rather bizarre consequences- of the Apocalyptic kind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Hrdina
• Release date: Jul 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452491189

William Hrdina

William Hrdina writes Simple Journeys to Odd Destinations. If you like his stories, please subscribe to his FREE short story podcast, Where the Fnords Linger. You can find it on iTunes. His books are also available via audible.com if you don't like reading with your eyes. The only thing you really need to remember is www.williamhrdina.com. William Hrdina was born in Chicago in 1974 and has been recently transplanted to Portland, Oregon where he is very happy with his animal children and his wife.

Book preview

Kenny G Must Die!!

A satire about music...

and zombies

William Hrdina

Other Novels by William Hrdina

Necropants Save the World (Kenny G Part II)

An American Buddha

Plane

The Gospels of Nikola Telsa

Conspiracy! The movie, the novel

Once a Dream Did Weave

The Diary of Bobby Stoner

Ialtaboath

Online Home

www.williamhrdina.com

DEDICATED TO MY WIFE Vickei- the only person I want by my side in a zombie apocalypse.

Copyright©2009 by William Hrdina

ISBN:1480230634

EAN-13: 978-1480230637

All rights reserved.  For information address William Hrdina- [e-mail].

Fnord Publishing is William Hrdina

First Printing, October 2009

Revised, November 2012

Second Printing Revision, February 2014

Third Printing Revision, February 2022

Prologue

June 23, 2009

I’ve Gotta Be the First to Hear It

A TAN 1988 BUICK SKYLARK chugged into the parking lot of the Wal-Mart like a chain-smoking rhinoceros with emphysema.  It was exactly 11:47 in the PM.  The car parked, illegally, in the handicapped spot closest to the door.  The driver, Steve Abernathy, turned the key and waited impatiently for the car to acknowledge he’d disengaged the engine.  Because Steve’s vehicle was a piece of shit, this could take anywhere from two seconds to two minutes.  He was in a hurry so the engine felt the necessity to continue running for a good thirty seconds before dying, briefly starting again, and finally grinding into dormancy.  Once he was sure the engine was going to remain dead, Steve opened his rust addled door and hurried inside the Wal-Mart.

The interior of the store looked like noon on a cloudless summer day instead of almost midnight.  Steve wondered if there was a small nuclear reactor in the basement providing electricity.  Oblivious to the myriad cheap mass marketed goods on display everywhere, Steve made a beeline to the music section.  He didn’t even consider buying The Breakfast Club on DVD for $2.99.  He checked his watch.  11:52.

Wondering if he might get lucky, Steve checked the ‘K’ section of the CD’s, but the one he wanted wasn’t out yet.  This was to be expected, the album wouldn’t officially be released until midnight.  Steve loitered around the CDs until 11:58, before finally approaching a tired-looking woman working behind the music section counter.  Her name, as attested by her nametag, was Carole. 

Excuse me Carole, I couldn’t help noticing you’re not getting ready, he said.

Getting ready for what? she asked, wishing for the millionth time, total strangers didn’t feel the need to call her by her first name.  It wasn’t like they ever introduced themselves in return.

Steve looked at her like she had a screw loose.  His response contained as much spit as speech.  He said, The new album is officially released at midnight tonight!  12:01 sharp!  And you have the nerve to ask me what you should be getting ready for?  To release the music!  At midnight!  I gotta be the first one to hear it!

A look of realization crossed the woman’s face.  Oh!  I see, she laughed.  You’re a music freak.  I get it.  Okay, then, what album are you wanting?  Is there a new Radiohead album or something?

Steve looked like she’d just shit in his hat.  Of course not, nothing like that.  I am a Christian!

Uh, okay, said the woman, shrugging.  Steve looked to be in his twenties.  Radiohead was the best-selling group for kids in their twenties.  Then what are you looking for?

He paused.  He never really felt right saying the name of his musical hero out loud.  The man was such a genius, such a master of his craft, everyone should just know who he was talking about.  Who else could he mean?  But obviously, like so many others in a fallen world, this woman just didn’t get it.

Exasperated, Steve told Carole what should’ve been obvious, I am here to buy a copy of the new Kenny G album, his first new release in seventeen months and fourteen days.  It comes out at midnight, sharp.

Carole just looked at Steve.

Well, what are you waiting for?  Steve was pointing at his watch.  It’s 12:01.  I should be on my way to my car to listen to it already.  I’ve gotta be the first to hear it!

"Oh my gosh, you’re not kidding," Carole said, starting to laugh.

She opened her mouth to say more, to tell him to stick his Kenny G up his ass sideways.  But Carole had three kids and she needed her job.  Carole’s boss was the kind of guy who thought the customer was always right, even when the customer was clearly an asshole.  Mr. Kenny G fanatic wasn’t worth it.

One minute sir, I need to get it from the back, she mumbled, half under her breath.

The album gets released at midnight.  You should’ve had it ready to go at midnight, Steve insisted as she walked away.

Carole’s back didn’t react, which was good, because her front was telling Steve, in no uncertain terms, to choke slowly on a ham sandwich.  She went into the back storeroom where she met Francis, a cashier taking her break. 

Hey Carole.  You keepin’ it together?  Everyone knew Carole hated working nights.

Carole let out a big sigh.  Only by a thread.  I have some guy freaking out on me because we don’t have the midnight releases out on the shelves yet.

Let me guess, Radiohead?

Carole laughed.  That’s what I thought too.  Nope, this guy is wigging out over Kenny G.

It was Francis’s turn to laugh.  I’m fifty-nine, and even I think that guy is for deaf old people.

This kid can’t be older than twenty-five.

Seriously?  Oh, I gotta see this winner!  Francis laughed again and left the storeroom.  Carole went and found the box with the latest shipment of CD’s and began searching for the Kenny G.  By the time she found it, Francis had returned from her reconnaissance mission.

It’s him! she exclaimed.

Who?

"The guy.  Remember, last month, when I told you there was a guy who paid for thirty dollars’ worth of stuff with nickels and pennies?"

Shut up!  It’s the same guy?

That’s him.  I’ll remember that prick till the day I die.

Carole was surprised at her language.  Francis was a very proper woman.  ‘Prick’ was the dirtiest word Carol had ever heard her say.

Excuse my language, but that man is horrible, Francis said, her face a little red at her bold choice of words. 

If I remember right, even Dave (the manager) said you could ignore the guy.

That’s true.

Well then, I think I’m going to take a cigarette break now.  You want one?

Sure, thanks. 

After her cigarette, Carole walked lazily back out onto the floor.  Steve was waiting, nearly apoplectic.

It is now 12:17!  I should be listening to track three by now!  Where in the heck have you been?!  This is very...unacceptable.

Yes sir.  Here’s your CD sir, Carole set the CD down on the counter and walked away, not giving him any emotion one way or the other.

I’ll have your job for this.  You will be fired.  I’m going to write the mayor about this!  You are an incompetent!  Steve snatched the CD from the counter and stomped away. 

In Steve’s mind, he imagined his ‘mental appointment book.’  In it, he wrote, ‘Go to Wal-Mart and lodge an official complaint with the woman’s manager.’ 

He knew he really should go and raise holy heck right then, but he didn’t have time.  He had a CD to play. 

Steve practically ran up to the cashier.  He gave her a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.  Before the woman could respond, Steve grabbed his CD and raced out of the store.  It only cost $17.32. 

Shrugging, the cashier pocketed Steve’s change.

Steve didn’t care, he was running to his car, trying to tear off the cellophane while he ran. 

He just had to be the first one to hear it.

Part One

Kenny G Must Die!!

An Unexpected Gift in the Midst of Depression

Iapproached my modest , two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Chicago feeling crummy.  I didn’t want to be in a bad mood.  It was summer, the sun was shining, fluffy blue clouds sat up in the sky like cotton balls.  Bunnies hopped; babies cooed—all the prerequisites necessary for a good mood were there.  But I couldn’t see any of it.  All I could do was contend with the low-intensity anger roiling in my gut and try not to kick anyone.  I wanted to cheer up, but I was helpless.

My mood was all Steve Abernathy’s fault.  Just thinking his name makes me want to shiver and punch the wall at the same time.  Steve Abernathy is the human expression of the sound fingernails make when scraping across a chalkboard.  He has, singlehandedly, destroyed my ability to find even a shred of enjoyment in my dead-end job.  A job, I should point out, that is very difficult to enjoy by its very nature. 

I snapped into the driveway, stopping with a small screech of rubber.  I turned down the radio’s volume so it wouldn’t blow my wife Emma’s eardrums out if she drove the car next.  On the way to my front door, I had to fight back the urge to kick the bulb off a pretty sunflower growing by my front porch.  I was just in that kind of mood.

I’d only taken a step inside the screen door when I heard Emma’s voice, Hi Aliester- I’m in the kitchen.

Immediately, I felt a little better.  Emma is like water on the fire of my frustration.  She’s the only one who really understands just how mind-bendingly annoying Steve Abernathy is to me.

Hi love, I yelled back. 

I dumped my backpack by the front door.  Under my breath, thinking about the state I’d been in all day, I mumbled, Someone needs to do something about this.  I'm going to go absolutely batshit. 

I threw my keys down on the table and plopped down on the couch with a deep sigh.

Coming into the living room and seeing the look on my face, Emma immediately knew what was up.  She said, Let me guess, Steve was playing his music again. 

I didn’t have to answer, she knew perfectly well what I was angry about. 

Nevertheless, in a futile attempt at venting my pent-up emotions, I said, Yup.  A new CD came out...  I shivered involuntarily, goddamn Steve played it over and over all day long.  I honestly think I'm going to hex the man and cause his hair to fall out if he doesn't start using headphones.

Sitting down on the couch next to me, Emma put her hand on my back and rubbed gently.  She said, Now don't take your anger out on Steve.  It isn't his fault.  He grew up in that horrible little town in, where did you say?  North Dakota?  And he’s been Born-Again on five different occasions already.  Do you really think a guy like that is going to have good taste in music?  You should just be happy he isn’t proudly dating his sister.

I guess, I said moodily, like a kid having to admit their homework wasn’t finished.

Thing is, I never wanted to know anything about Steve Abernathy.  You know how sometimes you see a person and you’re instantly like, ‘Oh, I need to stay far away from him (or her)?’ well, that was me with Steve from the first second I laid eyes on him.  He wore his work shirt tucked as deeply into his pants as humanly possible and he was wearing a sweater vest in July, and that was tucked in too.  When he introduced himself to me, all I could do was watch in shock as he blew straight past my personal space, his face stopping maybe four inches in front of mine.  He blew a combo of spit and bad breath into my face.  I think he asked me if he could take my office chair because his didn’t give him enough lumbago support. 

I told him ‘no.’ I also asked him to kindly never get into my face like that ever again.  He didn’t listen.

Since then, it’s only gotten worse.  It’s like Steve has this almost preternatural ability to know when I’m in a groove and getting things done.  Like clockwork he’ll stick his stupid head over my cubicle wall and ask me some idiotic question.  I mean this literally.  He’ll ask me, Do you think fish dream about walking on land?

And I’ll respond.  Shut the fuck up Steve.

And then he goes to my manager, Mrs. Puddlepocket and tells on me.

I swear to god.  I get told on, like I’m five.  And not just every once and a while either.  This happens all the time.  Every single time my stupid boss calls me into her office, and we have a talk.  There are marks against my employment record.  Counting my behavior toward this guy against my record is like penalizing antibiotics for upsetting the germs. 

Why can’t he just wear headphones?  Emma asked me. 

I smiled a toothless smile, my teeth grinding together.  I’ve asked the same question, twenty times.  He always gives me the same answer, it doesn’t say he has to in the employee manual, so he doesn’t wear them.  He says the earphones make his ears sweat and then he feels ‘oogy.’  He actually uses that exact word: oogy.

Have you explained to him how much you dislike his music?  Emma asked.

I gave Emma a dirty look.  I immediately felt bad about it, but of course I’d explained to Steve how much I disliked his music.  I’d told him calmly, bluntly, subtly, serenely, angrily, and once, in Spanish.  And I wasn’t the only one.  Everyone else in our section of the office has asked/told/begged him to turn it down at least once.  He just refuses.  It’s pretty obvious he enjoys his petty little annoyances.  He gets away with it because he’s the nephew of my supervisor’s supervisor (who, probably not by coincidence, doesn’t actually work in my office).  There’s not really a whole lot anyone can do to him. 

Being a shit seems to give his pathetic life purpose.  He certainly revels in the frustration he causes.  It’s not the way I’d want to live my life, but the little cockroach seems to thrive on our hatred.

When more than one of us gangs up on him, he resorts to the same phrase.  He says, Jesus is the only friend I need.

How are you supposed to argue with someone who thinks like that?  Personally, I find the idea Jesus would befriend such an asshole to be unlikely, but that’s just me.

After regaining my composure, I said to Emma, I’ve told him that I dislike his music, several times.

And what did he say?

You can imagine.  He said, ‘Kenny G’s music has no profanity, it doesn’t even have lyrics.  You can’t say the words offend you when there are no words.  Kenny G’s music features soothing, pleasant rhythms and harmonic bliss, it reflects the will of Jesus the Lord.  You should be grateful you can hear it as often as you do.’

He actually said Kenny G’s music features harmonic bliss? Emma laughed.

I sighed again. 

I should clarify something here.  When Steve Abernathy talks about his music he’s not actually talking about a genre of music.  He’s not talking about country, rock, classical, rap, jazz—or any other type of music.  Steve doesn’t listen to a type of music.  He listens to Kenny G, and Kenny G alone.  The most annoying entertainer I think I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing.  A man whose music I consider to be everything that good music isn’t.

Just thinking Kenny G’s name puts my teeth on edge.  John Tesh is the only other person who comes close to eliciting the same level of disgust.  If you haven’t listened to him before, I envy you.  Don’t. 

Emma and I try not to speak Kenny G’s name out loud.  It’s bad for my blood pressure.  Instead, we stick with Steve’s description: "his music." 

I told Emma, "One time, Steve said his music was ‘the music of the spheres.’  Can you believe that shit?  The music of the spheres!  Like when the universe turns on its axis, the greatest sound it could think to create is a guy circular breathing into a soprano saxophone.  Frankly, I’m offended on behalf of the universe at the mere suggestion."

Emma laughed and gave me a hug.

I felt a little better, but it was only Monday.  I had four more days of the new album before the respite of the weekend and every note seemed to have been recorded specifically to get on my nerves.  The mere thought of thirty-two more hours