B Side

 

                Brett checked the sound levels in the recording booth and gave the Devil a thumbs up.

                 “It all sounds great Satan. I think it’ll really be a great record,” said Brett into the studio microphone.

                 “You think so? I’m a little unsure about the whole ‘send me your babies, or I’ll give you rabies’, line in the second verse. I think it’s just… bad,” said Satan.

                 Brett lit a cigarette, even though you’re not allowed to smoke in the engineering room. He brushed his long, but thinning hair off his forehead. His fingernails painted black, fingers covered in silvery skull rings and black tattoos.

                 “Satan, baby, it’s playing backwards,” said Brett with a shrug, “I mean, will kids even know how to play a song backwards? Hell, I don’t even think kids have record players or turntables anymore to put your record onto and then spin it backwards, by hand. I just… I just don’t think kids are like, doing that anymore man,” said Brett.

                 “Yeah. That’s true. But I have a five hundred-record deal and I have to live up to my end. I mean, a deal is a deal, right,” asked Satan.

                 “Of course darling, of course. You gotta do what you have to do, but listen mate. What if we did this whole record, in a totally new format, something totally revolutionary, something so completely new that it will have the kids jumping off buildings and dropping their panties like the old days, eh,” said Brett.

                 Satan put down his fire engine red 16 string guitar. He stood up from the recording studio stool, stretched his sheep legs and scratched his hooves on the floor. “Ugh, I have to get back into shape,” he grumbled.

                 “Brett, listen,” said Satan, “I totally want to get into some new formats. Holograms, digital versions of my music, but I have to do it my way and in my time. I mean, U2 already beat me to the forcible download like, so many years ago with Apple. Oh and I love how they keep coming up with “new” phones every ten minutes. It’s awesome really.  But I have a process. And that process involves a very cumbersome listening experience that my true fans have grown to love and obey.”

                 “Satan, lover, I got you. I hear what you are saying,” said Brett.

                 Satan turned and looked at Brett behind the glass of the recording studio.

                 “Did you just call me lover,” asked Satan.

                 “Um, yeah, is that a problem Satan…,” shrugged Brett.

                 “Listen. This is a professional environment and I’d like to keep it that way. So please keep your lusty thoughts to yourself,” said Satan.

                 “Satan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just a goof mate,” said Brett.

                 Satan went back to the stool in the recording studio. He picked up his massive guitar and rested it on his lap.

                 “Brett, I’m sorry but I don’t think this is working out. I think you have a different vision for this album than I do. So… yeah, you’re fired,” said Satan.

                 Brett stood up in the engineering studio, his headphone dropping to the floor, as he backed away from the control consol. “Satan, no, I’m… I’m so sorry. I believe in your vision, I do, I really, really, really, do…,” cried Brett.

                 “Saying ‘really’ three times does not help your case. Thanks for your service. Good-bye,” said Satan as he snapped his fingers.

                 Brett burst into flames and ash and crumbled to the ground in a charred pile.

                 “Send in the next one,” said Satan. He started strumming his guitar, “Send me your babies, I’ll give you rabies…,” he hummed.  “Still not right…, ugh”.