Nap Lapkin’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve (part 2 of 2)

(originally posted 12/31/2017)

When Nap regained consciousness, it took him a few moments to process what he was seeing.

“I wanted you to see the full extent of what I’ve been up to.” It was Dick Clark’s voice … so read it as such, damn it.

Before Nap was a large open area. Large as in mind-bogglingly large. Strewn around the cavernous space were holding pens, large refrigerator units, and antique torture devices. Shackles hung from every wall and most of them were busy shackling. I should have mentioned that most of the holding pens were busy holding.

Please note if you are a big Hollywood producer-type considering turning this into a feature-length film, I’m perfectly willing to make the space considerably smaller if budget concerns become an issue.

“What is this place?” was all Nap could get out.

“What does it look like, secret agent man?” inquired Seacrest as he stepped out of the shadows to Nap’s left.

As Nap started to regain his senses, the enormity of the situation began to dawn on him. His eyes stared at a group of disheveled prisoners in the cage nearest him.

“Is that… are they…?” he began.

“Yes. Those are Dexy’s Midnight Runners,” Dick said finishing his sentence. “Well, most of them. I ate the bassist last month.  And before you think too poorly of the treatment they’re receiving, they were pretty bedraggled when I captured them.”

“You monster!” Nap said bitterly between clenched teeth.

“Come now, Mister FBI or CIA or whomever you are,” said Seacrest, clearly enjoying himself. “Look around. Do you really think the world misses any of these guys?”

A smile crept across the face of Dick Clark. “At first, I considered feeding exclusively on the homeless. Transients. Bums. But eventually, people would come looking for them. What I needed were people that absolutely nobody would care about.”

Ryan, his long incisors glistening in the bright torchlight (did I forget to mention the torches? I feel like I did), started to walk up and down the long line of cells. He stopped in front of one of them.

“Tell me, who in the world would give a shit about Lou Bega and his Mambo No. 5? When someone contacted his agent – one of our thralls of course – about him appearing in a commercial, we just sent out another thrall, a fat black one, and nobody knew the difference,” beamed Seacrest.

“You do know what a thrall is, don’t you agent-man?” inquired Dick.

“Do I look like I read Twilight, motherfucker?” spat Lapkin.

“And thank goodness for rap. We have so many one-hit wonders coming in these days … quite frankly I’m getting a bit sick of dark meat,” confessed Seacrest.

Nap tried slipping out of the nylon zip ties that held his wrists but they were pulled tight.

Ryan was making his way back towards Nap, trying his best to make eye contact. “Don’t fight it,” he said. “It will make it easier for you,” he hissed menacingly.

“Any last requests before we drink your blood?” inquired Dick Clark. “Perhaps a song from one of our esteemed guests?”

“A little Dishwalla? Some Semisonic?” asked Ryan with mock sincerity.

Nap kept his eyes down. Every time he would make even the slightest eye contact with Seacrest, things would get fuzzy.

“Do you happen to have Looking Glass down here?” he asked. “I could use a little Brandy.”

“Good call but we ate them a decade ago,” answered Dick. “Now I’m afraid you’re out of time.” With that he produced a long knife and took a step towards Nap.

The blade was inches from his throat when an even larger blade was thrust through the chest of Dick Clark. It disappeared from where it came only to return seconds later in a sweeping arc that took off the head of one very surprised vampire.

“Good to see you again, Nap!”

“Chance Goodrod?!” was all Nap could sputter out. (For those of you who haven’t read Nap’s space adventure Great Ball of Fire, Chance Goodrod is the moniker Nap gave actor Jeff Goldblum.)

“I was in town for the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve thing and saw them taking you down in the elevator. I thought I’d follow and see if I could be of any assistance.”

“That was your first and last mistake,” screeched an enraged Ryan Seacrest as he hurled himself towards Chance. Although Nap’s hands were bound, he was able to unleash a flying side-kick into the ribs of Seacrest that sent him stumbling back into one of the holding pens. He took a moment to smile and dust himself off and that proved to be a mistake. Suddenly countless arms reached through the bars to grab his arms and legs.

Eyes ablaze, he let loose a roar as he tried to pull away. That was all the time Nap needed. Pulling out the stake that was somehow inexorably placed in his jacket, he advanced on Seacrest.

“I’ll be honest Ryan, you’re a total douchebag. Even if you weren’t a vampire, I was hoping I’d get to do this,” and with that he drove the stake into the dark creature’s chest. With a final guttural cry, Ryan Seacrest died. Again.

Slowly the arms holding him up relaxed their grip and he tumbled to the cement. As Chance came over to cut through Nap’s bindings, they got their first good look at the owners of those arms.

Gotye. Daniel Powter. The guy from Primitive Radio Gods. Natalie Imbruglia. And in the back, much older than the rest, Peter Schilling.

“Are you Nap Lapkin?” he asked.

“Yes, I am. And you’re Peter Schilling, right? Major Tom himself,” replied Nap.

Let me stop here and point out that I previously said there were “countless” arms holding Ryan Seacrest against the holding pen (a description of the pen that proved quite ironic) when in fact there were ten arms holding him there. Ten is not exactly countless. My apologies. I got caught up in the moment.

“Yes. I am Peter Schilling,” said… well, you get who said it. I hope so anyway. I have pretty high standards for my readership.  I just thought I’d get us back to the Peter Schilling dialogue after my clumsy apology.

“I had the weirdest dream that David Bowie was singing Major Tom and you were somehow there,” he continued. “He” being Peter Schilling. Just to be clear.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Nap began to explain. “It was me sharing consciousness with a comet headed to destroy the Earth. You must have been included somehow. Long story – and available on the website.”

As Peter, Gotye, Daniel, the guy from Primitive Radio Gods, and Natalie walked around, letting out their fellow prisoners, Chance approached Nap.

“Do you really think the world needs all these hacks coming back at the same time? Can you imagine all the bad music we’ll be setting loose on the world?”

“What else can we do?” asked Nap.

They both seemed lost in thought for a moment.

Finally, Chance nodded in the direction of Duncan Sheik as he stumbled around incoherently.

“Can we at least say he was barely breathing when we found him and despite our best efforts he died?”

Nap Laughed. “Well I appreciate you saving me Goodrod so… yes, you can kill Duncan Sheik.”

“Thanks Nap. I fucking hate that guy.” And with that, he set off with a murderous look in his eyes.

I was originally going to use the brothers Phil and Pauley Fuemana, who made up the New Zealand band OMC (Otara Millionaires Club), because of their horrible one-hit How Bizarre but it turns out they both died very young and were therefore ineligible for the honor of being killed by Jeff Goldblum.

How bizarre indeed.

Later, as they went up the elevator to enjoy the rest of their New Year’s Eve, Chance took a deep inhale. Given the size of his nose, it was a lot of information for him to take in.

“You have a rather unique choice of colognes Nap,” he began. “I’m usually pretty good at recognizing fragrances but I just can’t place yours.”

He took another long whiff.

“Bleu by Chanel?” he inquired.

“Nope,” replied Nap.

“Paco Rabanne’s Invictus?”

“Nope.”

“Acqua Di Gio from Giorgio Armani?”

Nap shook his head.

“Yves Saint Laurent L’Homme Ultime?”

“Nope.”

“Creed by Aventus?”

“Did you really pick up a fruity bouquet of Corsican blackcurrant, Italian bergamot, French apple, royal pineapple, birch, and patchouli? You’re better than that Goodrod,” said Nap coldly.

“Nautica Voyage?”

“Nope.”

“Viktor & Rolf Spicebomb?”

“What about my scent leads you to believe it is a contrasting yet complementing mix of chili, saffron, leather, tobacco, vetiver, bergamot, grapefruit, elemi, and pink pepper?” replied Lapkin contemptuously.

Bearing down harder, Chance sucked in another lungful of Nap.

“I’m getting mint leaves, lemon zest, tonka bean, amber, vanilla, cedarwood, vetiver, and oak moss. Versace Eros?”

“Wrong again. Your nose is as useless as a dick on a eunuch … just much bigger,” laughed Nap.

(For fans of the Inception book series, a eunuch is a man who’s been castrated. For people who read The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, castration is when a man’s balls are cut off.)

(Are you fucking kidding, Manion? You spend 210 words listing men’s colognes for no discernible reason whatsoever and you’re going to disparage other authors who dare to actually have a purpose for including something in a story? Writers who are actually successful because they come up with a plausible plot and spend time doing things like reviewing what they’ve written for errors. Are you jealous or just stupid?)

“Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male Maxi?”

“Nope.”

“Only the Brave from Diesel?”

“Nope.”

“Italian Bergamot?”

“Nope. And if you guess Polo, I’ll punch you in the windpipe,” Nap said in a manner that indicated he wasn’t kidding.

“Pheromones for Men by RawChemistry?”

“Do you think I need a patented blend of human pheromones to get laid?” Nap said in a manner that indicated that he was actually contemplating punching Chance in the windpipe for such a transgression.

“Lalique Encre Noire? Valentino Uomo? Maison Martin Margiela Replica Jazz Club? Come on, Nap, give me a clue,” pleaded Goodrod.

At that moment, the elevator door proceeded to slide open revealing Madonna Axion in a short red dress with a plunging neckline. She breathed in ever so gently and looked Chance Goodrod in the eyes.

“Michel Germain’s Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette… with a hint of Black Suede,” she said, then took Nap’s hand and led him out into the mayhem of Times Square.