“Yeah,” he said. “That whole deal where we’d release an alleged home video of us tearing one off. That shit kind of fell through.”
“It did?” Crow asked, disappointed. “What happened? I was hoping that that video would hit the public at about the same time as the album is released and the tour starts. The publicity would have been priceless.”
Matt shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “That asshole wanted to choreograph our fuck, that was one thing. We could’ve lived with that, I suppose, but he insisted that Kim do a couple of those fake orgasms she’s so famous for.”
“Those orgasms are fake?” Doolittle said, clearly disillusioned by this revelation.
“Of course they’re fucking fake,” Matt said. “You didn’t really think she was getting off by having Ron fucking Jeremy cram nine inches of meat up her ass, did you? She fuckin’ bled for a week after that shit.”
“But they look so real!” Bailey said, shaking his head.
“That’s because she’s an actress and can act,” Matt said. “When she really comes, she’s quiet as a fucking mouse, although her pussy does some interesting shit when it spasms.” He took a drag from his smoke. “Anyway, that was the deal breaker. I’m not gonna have a bitch I’m fucking on camera fake no fucking orgasm and this Rodney Carver motherfucker insisted that she pull off some of her fake ones for the audience. We came to an unbreakable impasse on the matter so he decided to drop us and try this scheme with someone else. He said he wanted to find someone who’s not a professional porn star anyway. He was also hoping to find someone with a bigger dick than mine.” He shrugged. “I mean, my shit ain’t small and it’s certainly had its share of snatch, but I ain’t exactly porn material I guess.”
“That’s too bad,” Crow said.
“Yeah,” Matt agreed, “at least we got those demo tapes we made for him. We threw down some decent fucking on those. If I live long enough to end up in a nursing home or some shit like that, I’m going to play those tapes non-stop to remind myself of the good old days.”
“A good plan,” said Doolittle, who believed that Matt would live long enough to end up in a nursing home about as much as he believed in Santa Claus.
“Live and fucking learn,” Matt said. “That’s what I always say.”
The door opened and a busty young woman in a tight skirt entered carrying Matt’s drink in her hand. She set it down next to him with a smile. He thanked her for it and then ran his hand up the back of her nyloned leg.
“You got a mondo set of wheels on you, honey,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile and giggle, even as she twisted and maneuvered herself out of his grasp. “Will there be anything else?”
“A blowjob?” Matt suggested.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got far too much work to do right now. Maybe later?”
“Count on it, baby,” he said.
She smiled again and made her retreat, disappearing through the door.
“All right then,” Doolittle said. “Shall we give this thing a listen?”
“Let’s do it,” Matt said, gulping down the top third of his drink.
They gave it a listen, playing the tracks on the CD one by one. Matt had, of course, heard all the tunes a hundred times before during the mixing process, but he still felt that familiar sense of awe at hearing the finished product for the first time. That is fucking me! he thought. I made this music! I wrote it and put it together and played all the guitars on it. It’s fucking me!
The suits of National had not heard the tunes yet—nothing but the occasional snippets on the rare occasions they’d visited the studio—and they were quite impressed with the effort. They were not enjoying the tunes on an aesthetic level or an artistic level, but rather on a business level. This is what they’d envisioned when they’d signed Matt Tisdale for his solo work. It was hard-driving, complex heavy metal music laid down by one of the best in the business and then honed and polished by the best engineers in National’s employ.
“This is going to sell a ton,” Crow said when the last track finished.
“Goddamn right,” Baily said excitedly. “It’ll go triple platinum at least!”
“The hard rocks are going to love this shit!” said Doolittle. “I want the release date for this to be the first week of October. We need to have the first cut playing on the radio by mid-September!”
“What about the tour?” asked Matt. “When are we going to launch the tour?”
“We’ll need you to start rehearsing it up as soon as possible,” Crow said. “We’ll want you on the road by mid-October. You can start up in New England and then work your way south before the snow starts to fly up north.”
“Sounds like an ass-fuck,” Matt said. “I do need another guitar player though, remember? The problem with engineering my shit the way we did is that it now will take two guitarists to reproduce it live. I will play lead, of course, but I’ll need someone who knows his fucking A-string from his dick playing rhythm for me. I’ll want the best studio hacker you got.”
“You’ll have him,” Crow promised.
“And I’m not going to play those second-rate venues either,” Matt said. “You book me in first-rate arenas across the board or I’m not playing.”
A look passed among the three suits. “Matt,” Doolittle said. “You can’t dictate something like that to us. You are still under contract. Tour scheduling is our responsibility and privilege.”
Matt was shaking his head. “I ain’t playing second-rate fucking venues,” he said. “I’ll breach my fucking contract before I do that shit again. First-rate across the board. Once we start getting airplay of my tunes, once the album starts selling, I’ll fucking fill those venues.”
Another look passed among them. It was a longer look this time but it ended with a collective shrug. “All right,” Doolittle said. “First-rate across the board. But don’t push us too hard.”
“I’ll push as hard as I need to,” Matt said. “That’s how the game is played, right?”
“I suppose,” Doolittle said with a sigh.
“Now, there’s one other thing,” Matt said. “I’ve been hearing some rumors floating around that that fucking sellout motherfucker Coop and that tranny-fucking motherfucker Freakboy are hooking up with Kingsley and the Valdez bitch for their next albums. Is there any truth to that shit?”
“We’ve heard those rumors as well,” Crow said. “So far, Pauline Kingsley has not confirmed or denied this.”
“What’s our position on that shit?” Matt asked. “Can they fucking do that? They’re putting Intemperance back together without me! I’m the founding fucking father of that band! Can they just get together like that and start playing?”
“If they are just using Coop and Charlie as studio musicians for solo efforts, there is no legal basis for trying to stop them,” Doolittle said. “Neither Coop nor Charlie are under contract to National any longer. Coop was under contract for Aristocrat because he was a member of Veteran, but I’m told they officially released him from that contract.”
“Why the fuck would they do that?” Matt asked. “Is there some backroom dealing going on here?”
“In all likelihood, yes,” Doolittle confirmed. “Again, Pauline is keeping this pretty close, but I’m guessing they made some sort of deal to favor Aristocrat for MD&P in exchange for releasing Coop.” He shrugged. “We’re not happy about it, but that is their right.”
“But they can’t do any Intemperance shit, can they?” Matt asked. “They can’t call themselves Intemperance or perform any of our previous material, right?”
“They can’t perform any previous Intemp material without our permission,” Doolittle said. “And if they do not sign with us for MD&P, we’re certainly not going to give them that permission. As for calling themselves Intemperance ... well ... that’s a bit of a gray area. Remember when David Gilmour put Pink Floyd back together and Roger Waters sued? Waters lost that lawsuit when the court ruled the band name belonged to them all. If Jake and the boys wanted to get together and put out some new tunes under the Intemp name, chances are they would get away with it as long as they didn’t perform anything from the previous albums.”