The Tub

By Jeff Klinger

In a future utopia of purified culture and censored art, David Miller would sell his soul for a piece of that old-time rock and roll or at least sell his brother's. When rock legend Jim Morrison is resurrected in young Jacob Miller, things begin to shift in the devil's favor. Will he relive the sins of the past or rise above them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637106211

Book preview

The Clock Says It’s Time to Close Now

Paris, July 3, the year of our Lord 1971

The Paris flat was still dark in the early morning as the Lizard King trailed into the bathroom, shedding off what little clothing he had left. A white linen shirt crawled the tile floor, and crinkled leathers were kicked off leg for leg. He turned the faucet to an old Victorian bathtub in the hot direction. The pipe leading up to the tap rattled and clanged against the fine porcelain as water pumped through it. The water jetted out as the Lizard King sat his bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey on the sink. The sound of hard glass on hollowed ceramic made for uneasy music. The Paris heat in the summertime is at its most unbearable at times. The mourning hours before the sun peeks up on the city are the only time one can get a break and cool down. Up and about, his naked body left no shadow when crossing the room. Sweat beaded from under his thick dangling hair. His palms pressed down on the edges of the sink as he leaned into his reflection in the mirror. He rubbed out the sleep from his eyes and then saw them bloodshot. His skin was pale and chilled; his fever had not yet broken. A few passes with his hands fixed his continuous hair and scratched the itch from his beard. He took a swig from the bottle and sucked back more than he thought. The bottle spoke to him. It gave him his thoughts, his dreams, and his words. It also takes. It has taken. It has taken so much from him lately. It made him an outlaw in his own country and that of his profession. The power of the drink gave him his own notoriety, which made him think that the Lizard King can do anything.

The Lizard King shaved off his beard under the poorly dim lighting of the bathroom vanity. The mirror had fogged from the steam that evacuated from the tub. A cold sweat ran under his flesh and throughout his body. Sliding into the bathtub was soothing as water droplets on a window. He set the bottle down over the cracks on the tile floor; just the sound of it gave him an idea for a new poem. Splashes of water smacked the floor when the Lizard King jerked forward coughing violently. When the coughing fit ended, the Lizard King sighed with relief. He closed his eyes and reached blindly for his bottle. There were maybe three more swigs left as he put the rim to his lips and shot it back, composing them into one. Either the bottle or the Lizard King was finished. He felt something upon his upper lip. He put a finger to it—blood, dark, red, and smooth to the touch. He smirked a bit and slipped into unconsciousness without another flashing chance at bliss.

When the Music’s Over, Turn Out the Lights

Almost a century after the Lizard King shed his mortal coil, the world had drastically changed. Certain extremist organizations had blamed several terroristic attacks, school shootings, and other acts of violence on the arts. Society groups had banned certain movies, video games, comics, and books for graphic violence, sex and nudity, and vulgar language. In the center of it all was the music industry. All aspects of the music industry had been hit hard by the extremist. After their attacks, most music labels wouldn’t sign musicians with questionable lyrics and innuendos. The government heavily fined bands who used certain words in concert under strict profanity laws. The consumers were also hit with fines on illegal downloading and pirating. The first amendment had been heavily attacked on all fronts. A new purity act had been in force to fine artists for drug and alcohol intoxication. Anything heard on the radio sounded like it came from a car commercial jingle.

One of those elementary-type, jingle-sounding songs replaced the air within the sound booth tainting the very legacy that rock and roll created. On the other side of the glass, in the recording booth, David Miller was right there with it. Puffing on his cigarette. He listened intently for the quadrillionth time to a new song by The Shooting Cues. The Shooting Cues were something of promise—a garage band trying to make good. With clean-cut looks, traditional family themes, no drugs or alcohol, and gentle rhythms, they were going to be marketed by the record company as their forefront band for the future—at least to keep the sensors at bay. Their new song Mediocre, at best, had radio potential. As the musicians worked their instruments, David Miller tried painstakingly to rub out his headache. He fought hard to get back a little of what rock and roll used to be but in the end eventually sold out—sold out good too and all the way to the bank.

No, no, no! cut! David stomped out his cigarette as he shouted into the microphone to the band. He pushed aside his sound engineer as he left the booth. This is shit; you know that? Fucking garbage! There was frustration in his voice as he confronted the lead vocalist, Freddy Mann. This is totally not what we agreed on. The second verse is supposed to be thrashed into and far more upbeat than the first. He saw Freddy shrugged in his stance. Are you getting tired?

Freddy laid down his guitar in a lazy monotone movement. He moved to lock horns with David through the glass and fell short, avoiding eye contact. Look, man, we need a break. We’ve been at this for hours.

Fine! Take ten. Do want you have to do to give me what I need. Shoot, snort, or smoke whatever you need to get this off the ground.

Dude, you know we can’t do that. The other band members slowly began to disassemble. David knew from experience that when the band started to pack up, the day is done. Whatever you would get out of a musician is usually scrapped in the end.

David put his hands in the air and then slid them down his eyes. You know what? Let’s call it a night. I need a drink. Just be back here tomorrow with your groove on. David strolled back into the sound booth pinching the bridge of his nose. He began mumbling to himself, Fucking purity new wave bullshit. How long could he sacrifice great art for a paycheck?

An hour after storming out of the studio, David found himself staring at himself at the bottom of one of three empty glasses while sitting in his favorite stool at the Hard Rock Café. He ordered the bartender to hit him again as though he was at a blackjack table even if he had forgotten what he was drinking. He had more booze at his own place than the Hard Rock had clustered behind the bar. He always found the place somewhat magical. His patronage was one of nostalgic. To remind himself of an era of rock and roll revolution, it was the new church. Hard Rock Café refused to adhere to the new wave purity acts and continued to play the video and the sounds of true rock and roll. There were even talks that the franchise was going to change their name to True Rock Café but didn’t go through with it as to admit that there was something wrong with the way things were. The Hard Rock Café remained the big middle finger to the society that abandoned it. The decor alone showed the days of fans camping out at record stores for the next must-have album, balcony concert jumpers, mush pits, and lonely housewife confessions that they could not achieve an orgasm unless they were listening to Elvis. The Hard Rock Café was busy every night. Most regulars got lost in themselves while the restaurant played the tunes of the nearly forgotten time. And they played it loud like a protest. Nowhere in town could you down Southern Comfort next to Janis Joplin’s wardrobe.

She was great, wasn’t she?

David turned in his stool to the voice behind him and saw a very well-dressed man tonging the ice cubes in his Scotch. His age was hard to pinpoint with smooth hands and a face with a striking resemblance to that of Christopher Lee. Along with a dashing goatee, he wore a suave three-piece suit that fit him flawlessly. David thought about what the man said, fathoming the man caught him ogling at Janis Joplin’s hippie-dippie duds.

Yes. Yes, she was. David threw back a gulp from the new glass and put two crisp bills on the bar.

You look troubled, Sir, the gentleman stranger recognized.

Just issues at work.

Tell me. Maybe I can help.

I don’t see how you can help me unless you have a time machine with a big clock.

Try me. I specialize in solving people’s problems. Ah, where are my manners? David almost looked to the floor as if to find manners there like loose change. My name is Abad Don. I own a warehouse of unique artifacts—antiques, if you will. Abad held out his hand for David. David gripped the man’s hand in a polite handshake and was immediately stabbed by his long fingernails. David pretended no discomfort and introduced himself, David Miller, but my business isn’t in antiques. In fact, I don’t know shit about antiques unless it’s related to old music albums or something. When David slipped his hand away, he obtained a business card in it. He took a drunken glance at the card, and all that was written on it was Abad Don in all capitals, big and bold type with an unfamiliar font. There was no business name, no address, and no telephone or fax number.

You deal in priceless…artifacts, David said, thinking of the word fighting images of Indiana Jones.

No such thing as priceless. Everything has a price. May I ask what it is that you do?

I’m a record producer for Purity Records.

You mean the company that signs up bands, and they have to sign contracts to ride the high road?

That be the one, David admitted, not wishing to. He tried to follow the song blasting through the speakers, but his ears were blocked by The Shooting Cues crap he heard all day.

Is it true that the kids who sign are not allowed to drink, smoke, or swear? Abad had a little snicker in his tone.

You forgot staying out past midnight.

Abad gave out a laugh, but not a laugh. He lifted his glass for a dunk and took a chunk of ice in his teeth. David stared at one of the rings on his finger. It appeared old but heavy gold with a mesmerizing ruby clawed in the center. Antiques must be a booming thing these days. So, let me see if I got this. You sit in a little soundproof booth day in, day out listening to Kumbaya My Lord-type music because the puppet masters in the company tell you this or that is what they can market; and you, being a good puppet, do it even though you wish to be making some of that rebel, Highway to Hell" juice?

Insightful and colorful. I couldn’t have said it better. So, you see, your antiques would be pretty useless to a puppet like me. David combed the top lip with his bottom lip for any excess liquor. The bottles behind the bar started to slant, and that’s when David knew it was getting to be that time.

Actually, I have just the thing! Abad said