Only six bucks? Really? Wow, because the world is a vampire, then I go downstairs, learn O’Toole took charge from his coffin, and find out that the shows cost nothing. Who handled the blunder?
I can’t get my mind off of it. Inflation ruined the “Buck Rogers Show” a long time ago in a galaxy here on earth. A Mars bar costs twenty bucks online for its chocolatey goodness. WOW Radio tried to pay the bills.
Buck Rogers In The 25th Century staring O’Toole in the face. Ottis neatly folded issue number eleven of the comic book and placed it on the edge of a messy coffee table in an ugly, sick, disgusting room resembling a war room after some bomb attack. Mike loaned a few of his comic books to Ottis, but there was an issue with the deal. Ottis created a fine studio for himself. Only wearing a green speedo, like a drooling baby in the radio universe. His freshly tattooed skin hurt, mostly the tattoo of the San Diego State Aztecs on his kneck. He was rocking a new hardcore metal Mohawk haircut, busy writing one of the Halloween specials, but he was distracted. Fruit flies swarmed near a cooler beside the fridge and started spreading out. He had violently taken a swatter to them. The apartment was worth the price of making the comic book, but it was a studio home, and there was no place like home, no place like his own coffin. An empty bag of Doritos in the middle of a stained Indian rug, beside the professional headphones and an almost empty pizza box. A small pile of dry vomit from the rotten week. Dirty laundry piled up in the corner. A shriveled hot dog under socks. Sometimes, he pretended to be the master of indigenous sock puppets.
Ottis ogled a muted HDTV interrupted by the shit fruit flies and naked girls on a semi-hardcore Hustler channel. His heart racing, Ottis wondered how much he needed to save to buy premium porn, pay bills, and professionally clean stained underwear. In to self-loathing; he wanted better porn, and Hawaiian pizza. Sometimes, a philosopher when he wasn’t a radio star. A pepperoni slice was a metaphor for the world, and he hunched over the pizza box thinking about lies and truth. He loved pizza. After devouring the last slice of last week’s pizza, the gas churning inside his stomach needed somewhere to go, so he let it rip. The lion fart smelled like true Lionheart art. Even more flies swarmed. His virtual friendship with Mike and all the unproductive online memories.
Comic Books, for a long time, have been created as metal art. Sometimes, a book reaches out. More than a feeling, it can turn into a collection. Old comics can be valuable, but not everyone wants to share their assets.
Ottis didn’t really know Mike Rogers that well and never trusted the bastard. Mike was a well-built, beefy dude with a clean haircut; but almost like a young Harrison Ford with a blaster on the planet of Tatooine. Always on time, but he preferred meetings online. Most of his time was at the computer, but Mike wanted nothing to do with Ottis. The guy hated him. Mike wanted his comic books back. The son of a rich banker dad and right-wing PC mother. His mom worked at La Mama’s bakery. She wasn’t the real Mom, but she was the “other Mama” from his extremely toxic childhood. He rented out a small space in his parents’ house. Mike’s super-nice sister helped pay for his “Buck Rogers” rehearsals. A mustard connoisseur and a real big burger enthusiast. A COVID survivor, a tough guy, avidly following Republican party politics in the United States on RTTV. Mike had a stubborn loose cough and the world’s biggest boner. Wow, was he ever a vengeful, horny bastard. Ottis was hornier, more vengeful. Mike was a selfish golfer, saving up to buy better clubs, an actor breaking the fourth wall with a fifth of vodka, but he hoped to enroll back in school and try a degree in business. The long trips to Richmond Hill in a blue candy metallic 2012 Ford Focus were tedious. Mike’s ex-wife took up most of his free time. Back home he coughed, then muttered, “I could kill you.”
Ottis was secretly listening to Mike from a monitor in his studio. He giggled, almost like he was eleven years old, back at his first concert. “Whoopsie,” said Ottis. “Hey Buckaroo,” he said into the microphone, “I know about the Alien Power Platinum 11,000 male enhancement pills. I know you got them from Travis.”
Mike searched around the room, leaned into his computer, closed tabs, deleted emails, and said, “You don’t know jack-shit.” Mike fumbled on the keyboard, and then, dude said it again, “I could kill you.”
“I saw the naked pictures in the business section of the Puerto Rican Post.” His voice was harsh, raspy, loud, almost Portuguese. “They’re alright, but it doesn’t belong in the business section. No La Buena for you.”
“Fuck you,” Mike said, staring into the computer. God, had he ever had enough.
“I got what I needed,” Ottis said, finished recording, then rushed to take a leak.
“They can’t fire me, I quit.” Mike finally said. He was through with Lionheart.
I never bought into any of it. I’d just listen. I’d know where to find my six favorite shows on earth, worth metal balloon love, really metallic love that starts out slow, and then Buck takes a turn for the worse. There’s seriously heavy glam, a metal funk and metal reggae outburst. Seriously retarded; I put a stop to it all. I had to do it. I really had no choice: budget cuts. The Dow was dropping freakishly low. Wally was working at Esso, fixing gas prices super high. It had to end, but Buck enjoyed whiskey for the last show.
Technossance Magazine 
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