11. The Part With Some Romance

Larry awoke having been given the benefit of two hours sleep and a full meal waiting for him.  The meal looked like eggs, bacon toast and orange juice.  He ate every bit of it and felt refreshed.

One of Burnham’s crew handed Larry a box.  He looked inside and smiled.  Peeling out of the faux Michael Jackson outfit, Larry put on clothes that fit in better with his captors – a pair of worn jeans, a black t-shirt and a leather jacket.  As a precautionary measure, a stylist came in, dyed Larry’s hair bleach blonde and provided a pair of deep brown contact lenses to cover his blue eyes.  Finally, they supplied him with a set of sunglasses that would have made John Lennon and the hippie rebellion proud.  Once dressed, Burnham escorted him to the entrance of a very large hangar.  Before they entered, it occurred to Larry that he felt suddenly uncomfortable calling the people around him “captors.”  So, he asked Burnham what they were actually called.

“Rebels.  The rebellion.  The Emteeveens have a different name for us,” Burnham said. “It’s dumb and none of us use it.  But amongst them, they have named us.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Billy Idols.  But spelled B-I-L-L-I-D-O-L-S.  Billies for short.  For that song … Rebel Yell.  Though none of us ever cry ‘more, more more.’  We want this to end.  And it’s going to.  One way or the other.  But … you’ll be a help then.  Let’s go.”

Burnham opened the hangar door to reveal a massive copper-hewed airship.  Its turbofan engines whirred in the background.  Larry figured its sleek oval shape easily reached 150 meters long and towered six stories tall with beautifully curved flying surfaces gliding from its center to its rear.  The airship hovered about five meters from the charcoal-grey concrete floor and featured about a half dozen Billies attending ropes on either side of the ship.  Burnham, Larry and two others walked toward the bridge, the noise from the turbofan engines gradually increasing in volume as they got closer.

“So, we’re not going to turn each other into root beer?” Larry yelled above the din.

“We don’t have that kind of technology, Larry!” Burnham yelled, pointing to the airship. “It’s taken us a good while to come up with this!”

“But won’t we be spotted?  This thing is fat!”

Burnham explained they’d be flying in a safe zone down into an area called Lower London.  There, they would disembark and meet up with the Adam Ants gang.

They boarded the airship, sat down and Larry mused to himself about the influence of the New York Dolls.  Musically, he never cared for many of their tunes.  He felt their New York ties really pushed them over the edge in an era of Studio 54, a drug culture run rampant and free sex.  Nearly transvestites, the Dolls always felt like much more than they were.  Many of his friends, however, garrulously fawned over the Dolls.  Larry felt they were nothing more than a punk band gone to the cross-dressing crowd wound tightly into that sex, drugs and hedonism scene.

And that, Larry felt, is also where the band held its greatest influence.  As more up and coming musicians and wannabe’s began looking for mentors, even long-distance mentors, many looked closely at the dolls.  They were close to the drugs – choose your poison.  They were close to the sex – choose your folly.  So, emulating them made sense.  Be them, and get what they have.  And what young guitarist, front man, bassist or drummer didn’t want the life?

So what happened?  Motley Crue and a tidal wave of hair metal happened.  The alternative music explosion of the 1980s hit the United States and Larry’s favorite radio station 91X like the concussive wave of an atomic bomb explosion.  And what did the Dolls, the Crue and this new wave of music all have in common?  Profusely styled hair.  Protracted layers of makeup and more androgyny than previously exhibited during any decade of American history.  Pouting.  Smoking.  Bangles.  Thank you very much.  The New York Dolls plugged themselves into history nicely.

That’s why Larry could never figure out Adam Ant.  He showed all the classic components of a New York Dolls clone, but somewhere along the way, Larry felt Mr. Ant must have read a book about the American Revolution.  Perhaps British military dress from 1756 to 1879.  Or something.  In any case, Adam Ant turned out to be everything like the Dolls and nothing like them, which is why Larry liked Adam and the Ants and, later, Adam Ant, so much.  he just never figured out what got the musician from A to B.

Contemplating all this managed to get Larry and the rest of the Billies on the bridge clear of the hangar and off the ground.  Larry stood up and looked out the massive windows aboard the airship.  Rolling hills carpeted by emerald grass, deep ravines that dropped off like fiords in Norway and, off in the distance, a massive sprawling skyline that dwarfed New York City and Chicago ten times over passed as they traveled.  Burnham stuck out a finger.

“They’re holed up there,” he said.  “They don’t come out here much to the under cities unless they want something big.  There are still enough of them down here, but there are more of us.  When we reach Lower London, you’ll see!”

The airship cruised for almost a full hour before it dipped down into the mouth of massive ravine that would have swallowed up a good portion of land by any measurement.  As the airship descended, the beginnings of construction appeared; brick and glass buildings constructed in any number of geometrical forms lined the craggy red rock sides. Descending for a full 45 seconds, the dirigible dropped about 200 meters when finally the whole thing opened up before Larry’s eyes.  He couldn’t believe what he saw.

“My god,” he said.  “It’s London.”

“Lower London,” Burnham said. “This city we call our headquarters.  We didn’t want to show it to you until we were sure they hadn’t gotten to you yet.  All this in only a matter of months, Larry Milk.  We work fast.”

City streets, buildings, railways and infrastructure sprawled underground for kilometers.  Larry looked out, seeing the city lit by artificial lighting and sunlight reflected in by a series of sophisticated panels and other devices Larry could not see.  All of the usual landmarks were there: Big Ben, the Tower Bridge, Trafalgar Square, Parliament, Piccadilly Circus and all the rest.  The airship hovered for a bit to give Larry the view then quickly swooped toward an area that looked like a military airfield.  The aircrew lowered the dirigible toward another hangar and drove it in with ease.

Larry felt queasy stepping off.  “No cars?” Larry asked. “We couldn’t have driven here – taken a bus or something?”

“We haven’t figured out cars yet.  Our scientists are completely flummoxed on one bit of the automotive science,” Burnham said solemnly.

“Which part?  Aerodynamics?  Engineering?  Fuel?”

“Cup holders.  The damn things leave us in knots.”

Larry stopped.  He thought about saying something and even raised his hand to start.  Burnham cut him off.

“Time is wasting, Larry,” he said.  Larry knew there were more pressing matters at hand.  He and Burnham moved over toward a smaller, more streamlined airship.  Burnham piloted this himself with Larry by his side.  The twosome flew toward Big Ben and landed in the street in front of tall, red brick building with a dozen windows on its front.  On its front hung a sign marked “Marco’s Guitar Shop.”  Burnham walked up to the door.  He pounded using both fists 16 times to the same beat as the song “Goody Two Shoes.”

A porthole opened and a gorgeous Woman Ant’s face appeared. “Oh, it’s you Burnham.  Come in then,” she said.  The door opened revealing to Larry a body just as astounding as the face.  “Here then, who’s your friend?”

“This, Elektra, is Larry Milk.  Larry, this is Elektra Miller.”

“This is him?” she said and let out a cackling laugh. “He looks more like my alcoholic father after a good bender, doesn’t he?”  She laughed again, much louder this time. “Come on then.  Get inside before the Emtwits start crawling all over us.”

The entrance to the headquarters of the Adam Ants proved something of a medieval affair.  The Victorian brickwork on the outside disguised an inner brickwork that looked more like that of a keep.  Walking through the foyer made Larry feel like he’d been transported to a Renaissance Fair.  However, Larry quickly left that notion behind to better continue looking at Elektra, to whom he’d suddenly found himself attracted.

Her shoulder length brown hair ran straight and looked like she’d cut it recently.  Her purple cat’s eye glasses rested on thin high cheek bones and shielded ice blue eyes that seemed to glitter when she laughed.  Even, round lips set above a symmetrically wonderful chin glowed with a similarly purple shade of gloss.  Not too heavy with an ample bosom, Elektra walked like she owned the world and probably did in many ways, Larry thought.  How, Larry wondered, did he become a citizen of that world?

Elektra walked more than a few strides ahead of them when Burnham nudged Larry.  “More men want to get her than they want another seven centimeters of penis, Larry.  Plus, she’s the boss’ daughter.  You haven’t got a shot.”

“What?” Larry said, trying to play it off.  “Just … looking as anyone would.”

Burnham loosed a quick laugh.  “Well, she’s still got four arms, Larry.”

“Mmmm,” Larry mumbled and they continued on.  Eventually, they reached what looked like a large meeting hall filled with Adam Ant look-a-likes.  Burnham greeted several of them and then looked at Larry.  “These,” he said, waving a hand, “are ours.  There are other Adam Ants aligned with the Emtwits.  They don’t get past Elektra and her crew.”

“What’s Elektra do, exactly?”

“She runs security of this headquarters, of course.  She’s a bit of a hard-ass, Larry.  Sure you can handle that?” Burnham said, then another hearty laugh.

“Come on Drexel, he’s in his office!” Elektra called.  Burnham and Larry pushed through.  They followed Elektra through a set of double doors.  Inside an elaborately decorated executive styled stood as figure behind a desk, staring down at paper work.

“Drexel’s here and he says he’s brought Larry Milk,” Elektra said.

The man looked up.  “Oh yes,” he said. “So you did.  Then we must talk then.  Elektra, you can stay.  You’ll need to hear all of this.”

Elektra closed both doors as Burnham and Larry approached he desk.  Burnham spoke first.  “Larry, this is Ignacio Sheets.  He’s the leader of the Adam Ants.”

“Hi,” Larry said and extended a hand.  Sheets offered a cool look at Larry’s hand like it was infected.  At that moment, Larry realized these people had no idea how to execute a handshake or which of their four hands would be part of it.  He pulled it back.  “So, your name is not Adam Ant?”

“No, why would it be?” Sheets said.

Good point, Larry thought. And you’re a dumb ass for asking.

“We’re here, Modesto, because we need to get Larry back to the Emteeveens and not make it look like we’ve planted him there for our own business.  You see …”

Burnham’s conversation trailed off as Larry secreted glimpses of Elektra.  Just then, Larry remembered going to his second prom and Diana Murray.

Quiet, diminutive and solemn, Diana Murray never registered on any high school boy’s Richter scale. Then Larry saw her for the first time, and something about her shook him off his scale.  He fell smitten.  Sure, Larry dated his share of popular girls, including a pair of cheerleaders.  Not the ones at the top end, with the blonde hair, attitudes and trust funds, mind you, but the ones at the other end of the scale who’d liked In-N-Out Burger too much, had only fragments of self-esteem and went down on the first date.  Still, Larry figured cheerleaders.

And it wasn’t that Larry didn’t date his share of hot babes either.  He did.  Mostly, he encountered them at parties, waited until they were drunk and then attempt to latch onto to them as their “dates” midway through the night.  Nothing weird.  He just knew if he timed it right, and the girl was drunk enough, she’d smile, put her arm around him and bring him close.  It worked three times.  The third time, Larry recalled consensual sex. Tribulations and annoyances over time those became and none of that compared to what he felt when he saw Diana Murray.

In three decades of life, Larry couldn’t put his finger on what made him so ga-ga for her.  Not looks.  She stood barely a meter and a half with chocolate brown hair bobbed like the 1950’s housewife roared back in the popularity scales.  Her personality wasn’t golden.  She had less energy at times than a worn-over zombie version of Lindsey Lohan.  And certainly, it wasn’t that he lusted for dear Diana.  Rather, it was all those things.

When he finally asked her the courage to go to the prom, Larry through the Chamber of Commerce fixed the conditions just for him.  He wore a little extra cologne, brushed his teeth twice and made sure his pants were press.  Larry walked across the quad, past the school theater to the shady corner near the math building where Diana ate lunch each day.  After some small talk, Larry crouched beside her, looked into her eyes with a soft smile and asked her to go with him to the prom,

She smiled, held his hand and gave him a comfortable, warm, “No.”

And walked away.

It broke Larry’s heart, and Diana never told him why.  However, Larry never questioned it.  He just let it go.  Diana played as a beautiful enigma in his mind.  And before him now sat a four-armed beauty of a woman with whom came the same emotional baggage.  One part lust, one part “need to be near you,” and another part clutching on his heart.

All that thinking unclouded, Larry realized their eyes had met and that Elektra offered him a small smile.  A consolation prize, perhaps?

“… before we can disarm the warheads and put a stop to this crazy business.  And if we get Larry here back into government center, he can help us accomplish that.”

Sheets took a seat, folding his hands and contemplating Drexel’s plan, most of which Larry missed.  Larry saw Sheets as a cool customer, one that didn’t suffer fools lightly, with an aire of one of his old editors — micromanaging, divisive prick that he was.  His narrow features and long fingers made him something of an exaggerated form in the room’s lighting.

“Larry Milk, we need to get you back into the Emteeveen Congress building.  Here’s how we’ll do that,” Sheets said, and began explaining the process. “But first, is this your cat?”