Solid Gold Rock ‘n’ Roll In: Expenditures

Should be clear I’m a cold, hard killer

Who’s sophisticated with touch of high-class

A heart-breaker bringing death by sexy

A lady-killing mama in a rock n’ roll band

EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF MANAGER HUW OLLIE, SOURCE FOR THE UPCOMING BOOK “ROCKING WITH THE STUD, ROLLING WITH THE STALLION: A SOLID GOLD LIFE ON THE ROAD”:

…Boog finally got a hold of Boots and got him straight before the big show.  Geezer can get downright shattered at times, that low after the high, right?  Sometimes he’s solid as cast metal, other times he’s like a broken vase what has been glued together with one’s feet.  And once he’s up, he dont wanna talk about it.  He’s back on, party back on, it’s like an overnight.  Hair just goes perfect, like magic.  I always say it’s lucky that them ladies and fellas arent paying to see ole Huw, cause I couldn’t look half as put together as them boys if you gave me three hours!

    Post-show, they was riding high.  I cant claim that I all the way get why they wanted to do this pro wrestling stuff, I mean obviously they have talent–Boots is pretty but I’ve never seen him back away from a scrap, and I’ve watched Boogie wade through a crowd launching tossers like they was more nuisance than fighter, right?  The skills are there.  But I always figured once you get success on one side, the other would suffer.  Hell, I told them as such.  They’re aiming to prove me wrong. 

    Rec’d bill for hotel accommodations.   $5,250.00
    Rec’d bill for hotel repair                       $1700.00
    Rec’d bill for Bunnies of LV, Barry        $2600.00
    Misc Expenditures                                $3657.56

    Total 04/09 – 04/16                               $13,207.56  ←- Expense this shit!

—

BARRY.

“Naw, Huw, don’t worry about it.”

Listen, if there’s a time to not bother the Boogieman, it’s during his morning workouts.  He’s on the balcony of his hotel room, his considerable bulk and brawn only contained–and “contained” is doing some heavy lifting–in a set of baby blue bikini cut plum smugglers.

He’s also on a yoga mat.

He’s also doing a headstand.

How does a man of his slight height maintain more muscle mass than the entire offensive line of the Alouettes?  He works at it.  It can’t be later than seven in the morning, and here Barry Delgado is, Upside down, mullet limp with sweat, doing handstand pushups.  His body positively shakes with the effort, but we catch him knocking five out, slowly as a man can, before rolling to his back and letting the momentum bring him to seated.  He fiddles with the airpod in his ear, making sure it’s secure.  The mustache makes the frown look severe.

“I’m not in this to half-ass it, bud.  You should know that better than anyone.  And Boots isn’t either.  I know you keep looking at the bottom line and worrying, but that aint what this about.  This is about dreams, dude.  You remember them, right?”

There’s a pause.  Clearly his road manager is on a tear.  For lack of anything better to do, he hops to his feet.  Sets his heels, then holds his left leg out in front of his body, as well as his firewood cord arms.  Carefully, he executes pistol squats while listening.  Well, he’s hearing.  Guess the jury is gonna be out on the listening.  Suddenly, he stops.  Flexes his gigantic upper body.

“Nope.  Not having this talk with you.  I know what you see, I know what you’re worried about.  We’ve had this talk at least three times before and I’m not here to hear it.  The Stallion and the Stud are gonna make their mark–we already have!  We’re only gonna keep doing that, bud.  Yeah.  Yeah.  Alright, text me about the car service.  Bye.”

He leans down to his cell phone and ends the call.  He pulls out his airpods and settles his heels again.  Pistol squats–rock them again.  All his strength and sweetness originates from the core, after all.  As he hits number nine in a row, he alternates to the other leg.  Broad, powerful, Canadian, coated in sweat.  The sun begins to bathe his skin and his sun god peroxide hair.  He’s a gladiator, if a flamboyant one, getting prepared for his day, his careers, his trials, his life.

And he ain’t alone.

“Boogie, baby?  It’s extremely early.  You want me to tell room service to send up breakfast?”

This is from inside.  The head poking itself out is beautiful, the body it’s attached to even moreso.  Mocha skin clad in a silken robe.  He turns, breaking into an easy smile, but he’s a bit different than Trent.  A woman like this?  Electric Boots turns them down.  Boogie still gets the light in his eyes.  Kid on Christmas morning.  “Is this real life?  Is this how I live now?”  He saunters over and leans against the wall, looking her up and down.

“Amber, sweet sweet thing.  You can go back to bed girl, you know how I gotta start my mornings.”

She smiles and runs a finger along the movie screen expanse of his chest.

“I do.  I also know how hungry you get after.  So I’m gonna tell them to bring us coffee and your usual.  After all, you got me for another day, lover boy.”

She all but floats back through the door, the sliding glass closing with a hushed seal.

Boogie shakes his head, smiling.  He walks to the railing and looks out on a city that hasn’t decided if it’s going to come alive yet.

—

TRENT.

“…I’m just sayin’ Boots, boyo, there’s a fortune to be made doin’ a swing across the east coast, right?  You know I don’t like leavin’ money on the table, especially easy money.  Stings me like buggery.  An’ Barry ain’t hearing much of it, though in his defense I did call ‘im during his workouts.”

“Huw, honey, don’t tell me you interrupted his calisthenics.”

“Of course I did, wasn’t like you was gonna be awake, were you?”

Trent considers the proposal.  The clock on the nightstand makes it clear that it’s only a few minutes until 11am, and he’s practically nude–for all we know, he could be.  His more naughty sections are covered by an interlocking lattice of legs belonging to backstage betties of all stripes.  Boogie pays for his companionship.  Trent doesn’t, ever.  And despite the gruff cockney voice currently blasting from his phone, those wenches ain’t stirring.  And if they ain’t stirring, that’s fine by the man himself.

“Nah baby, guess I wasn’t gonna be.”

“Right, so as I was sayin’, I know this mess with PRIME is important.  I know you boys had a crack-up at the Survivor thing and I like that you’re having fun, but–”

“I’m not here to hear that, Huw.  Honey child Huw you know I’m not here to hear that.  Ay-yay-yow daddy, Electric Boots done been destined for that ring and those lights, and where Boots do rock, Boogie do roll.  You can think it’ silly, you can think it’s dumb, but you cant never deny that we aint where we wanna be, deserve to be, and make sense to be.”

“But the money, Trent–”

“Boots.”

“Boots, right.  The money, and you’d only be gone for two months!”

“Two months?!  Huw, babye, who gonna explain that to all the pretty mamacitas and the stone-cold rockerboys who tune in on the television to see the Stallion and the Stud?  You gonna tell them why they can’t see their heroes, the stars of their dreams?  I refuse, categorically.  You fight this all you want, but at the end of the day they ain’t cutting the check without the money act.  And that money act is us.  We Solid.  Gold.  And we’re tag team wrestlers, Huw Ollie.  Why can’t you accept that?  Why you always gotta fight us?”

There’s a long pause.  Trent bats his suspiciously luscious eyelashes, smiling contentedly to himself.

“Boots.  Sweetheart.  I’m a road manager.  I work for rock and roll bands.”

“Correction, road dog.  You work for the greatest tag team in PRIME Wrestling.  Love you.  Text me when the car service arrives.”

With that, he ends the call, stretching out like a cat, arching his back on some Flashdance shit.  He holds his arms above his head and shimmies himself, snake style, making his way out from underneath the various legs and bodies and landing in a crouch at the foot of the bed.  This isn’t his first rodeo of this particular style.  He’s well versed.  He stands, his considerably lanky frame almost always naturally folding itself into angles and poses that speak to pure sexual attitude.  Reaching over, he grabs from the floor a silk kimono…and a silver suitcase secured with a padlock.

“‘East coast.’  Leave this for Richmond, Virginia?”

He slides on the kimono and takes the case to the living room.  Leave the ladies to rest.  They’re…very tired.

—

BOOGIE AND BOOTS.

No ladies.

No manager giving you shit through the phone.

Nah, not in these moments.  Right before a show.  Last looks.  Make sure you’re preened and primed and everything is perfection.

Boogie is checking himself out in a small hand mirror, sitting on the couch.  His favored Molson Canadian is dripping, crispy frosty, but mostly he’s making sure his mustache is free of any flyaways, his stubble just so, his mullet properly feathered.  His eye makeup is already applied.  His jeans are of a status that’s primarily painted on, the kind of thin, crotch-accentuating model that they discontinued in 1978, after the prime era for moose knucklery.  The tears and rips are either a happy accident or the result of careful planning–either way, they look perfect.

Boots?  Boots is in front of a full vanity.  The lip gloss, the concealer, the mascara.  The hair.  The selection of various necklaces and the silk shirt that will reveal the perfect amount of treasure trail and just a bit of nipple.  His pantwear is decidedly, aggressively sensual.  The crotch and ass might as well be cuir bolli to his charms, the thighs showing open flesh, laced tight by leather cord.

Notably, he doesn’t have his footwear on.

But also notably, he isn’t freaking out.

Finishing his look with leather gloves–atop which he places chunky silver rings–he saunters towards the couch, his smile infectious.

“Ay-yay-yow, Boogieman!  You looking like Eros himself got ripped at Venice Beach!”

Boogie stands.  They lock eyes, and nod.  The silver case is still on the table.  Barry Delgado reaches around his neck and take off a necklace: a silver chain with a key on it.  Trent Sadikaj produces his own from around his neck.  The padlock is a specialized model, no cheap hardware store masterlock will do.  This one contains a dual-key entry, it has to have cost them a pretty penny.  Maybe it’s what makes up the bulk of that misc expenditures, totally separate from Trent’s taste for fine hotel accommodations and Barry’s taste for fine ebony women of the evening.  And yeah, this scene seems comical.

But they ain’t laughing.

They meet eyes.  Both keys go in at once and turn at the same time, like they’re opening a vault filled with state secrets.  Padlock disengaged, they open the case–and baby, I swear to you, a golden glow fills the room.  Those boots are the definition of ostentation, the fanciest things this room has ever seen.  They’re entirely custom, platform, rhinestones, chrome, gold, spikes, chains, patent shined to a mirror finish.  Trent holds them like someone might hold the Gutenberg bible.  Ancient reliquaries.  The Holy Grail itself.  He sits and starts buckling himself into them, as Barry stands and stretches.  While Trent is occupied, his bassist speaks.

“You know…I know we didn’t get our start doin’ this stuff, Trent.  And I know you, me, and Huw Ollie been around the bend today about this East Coast tour idea.  But facts is facts–those venues are gonna be there whenever we say yes.  And this, what we’re doing right now?”

He grins.

“We feel alive.  So come on, Electric Warrior.  Let’s go get ‘em.”

With this, Trent Sadikaj stands, half a foot taller now that he’s appropriately geared.  Both men shake their bones out a little and strut from the room, Barry leading the way so he can open doors, the low end opening up a path for the slinky yowl of the frontman.