The Tunewagon of Dirge the Minstrel
Dirge the minstrel was a seriously cool dude. He was rockin'; smooth with the ladies and riffs, didn't miss a beat, drank like the Sahara and puked like a fire hydrant. He could play a guitar and a bass guitar, and as rockin' as he was, he would never live up to the heavy dose of rockin' the Tunewagon gave off.
Twelve wheels. Twenty seats. Fifteen speakers. Six subwoofers that sounded like rocks trying to harmonize. Blue flame decals, flaring back from the swooped fenders of the front wheels. Glittering paint, chipped in places by rocks and travel to show the primer and metal underneath. A minibar that lit up inside. Scented candles, bookshelves, carpeting, curtains, and a queen-size bed. Thirty-thousand pounds of touring, pulled by a six-hundred horsepower engine. Twin turbo. Drilled exhaust pipes.
It was all a luxury. All of it. The curtains used more fabric than most people would ever see, let alone touch, let alone own. The spare gasoline cans cost as much on the black market as food for seven people for six months. The amplifiers in a special trunk at the back of the Tunewagon used more parts and electrics than most hacked-together little putt-around cars from well-established towns like Mangeville and Skid. And there was no practical reason for any of it, except to stir up jealousy and frustration in the villages it rolled into on Dirge's endless world tour. The Czar of Palooza like stirring up jealousy and frustration. The more the better.
He wasn't a bad musician by any means. He could carry a tune, and on a good day, the dude was a blender, which is to say, he could shred. His band was tight, his lyrics were down in the dirt with the common man, full of imagery and relevance. Red dresses and mixed drinks. Silverware in a garbage pile. He built his fame and image on his skill and raw rock-and-roll capability.
It was slow at first. He walked from gig to gig with his guitar hanging from one shoulder. No band, just himself and a sadness only a string of aggressively strummed chords could placate. There was peace in the order of music.
But that wasn't it at all. The Tunewagon wasn't his because it had been bestowed by the rock-and-roll gods to whom Dirge prayed every night, who slumbered in the Hall of Fame, up in the sky, where the tempo never falters. He was a patsy for the Czar of Palooza. He took his mail up the stairs in the morning and wrote two love ballads for the Czar to play to his lover across town. They were good ballads. The Czar played them and sang his heart out. He sang about roses and cactus blossoms and the sunrise and growing old. And he offered her a mug of hot chocolate, and that was what really worked, because she really had a thing for hot chocolate. But the Czar built the Tunewagon for Dirge anyway, because he really like the ballads.
And besides, the Czar had a lot of gold lying around from murdering half of Palooza in a murderous rage one evening when his first wife had died of cholera.
Twelve wheels. Twenty seats. Fifteen speakers. Six subwoofers that sounded like rocks trying to harmonize. Blue flame decals, flaring back from the swooped fenders of the front wheels. Glittering paint, chipped in places by rocks and travel to show the primer and metal underneath. A minibar that lit up inside. Scented candles, bookshelves, carpeting, curtains, and a queen-size bed. Thirty-thousand pounds of touring, pulled by a six-hundred horsepower engine. Twin turbo. Drilled exhaust pipes.
It was all a luxury. All of it. The curtains used more fabric than most people would ever see, let alone touch, let alone own. The spare gasoline cans cost as much on the black market as food for seven people for six months. The amplifiers in a special trunk at the back of the Tunewagon used more parts and electrics than most hacked-together little putt-around cars from well-established towns like Mangeville and Skid. And there was no practical reason for any of it, except to stir up jealousy and frustration in the villages it rolled into on Dirge's endless world tour. The Czar of Palooza like stirring up jealousy and frustration. The more the better.
He wasn't a bad musician by any means. He could carry a tune, and on a good day, the dude was a blender, which is to say, he could shred. His band was tight, his lyrics were down in the dirt with the common man, full of imagery and relevance. Red dresses and mixed drinks. Silverware in a garbage pile. He built his fame and image on his skill and raw rock-and-roll capability.
It was slow at first. He walked from gig to gig with his guitar hanging from one shoulder. No band, just himself and a sadness only a string of aggressively strummed chords could placate. There was peace in the order of music.
But that wasn't it at all. The Tunewagon wasn't his because it had been bestowed by the rock-and-roll gods to whom Dirge prayed every night, who slumbered in the Hall of Fame, up in the sky, where the tempo never falters. He was a patsy for the Czar of Palooza. He took his mail up the stairs in the morning and wrote two love ballads for the Czar to play to his lover across town. They were good ballads. The Czar played them and sang his heart out. He sang about roses and cactus blossoms and the sunrise and growing old. And he offered her a mug of hot chocolate, and that was what really worked, because she really had a thing for hot chocolate. But the Czar built the Tunewagon for Dirge anyway, because he really like the ballads.
And besides, the Czar had a lot of gold lying around from murdering half of Palooza in a murderous rage one evening when his first wife had died of cholera.
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