Sure, my heavy metal band, the Desperados, needed the gig, but our 2024 booking agent should have clued us in on how much our cellphones resembled 2483 ID devices. The moment we emerged from the portal, a robot snatched the mobile from my pocket and examined the notification screen. She extended an appendage and tattooed my new name—Scam Likely—on my forehead. Ouch. From their scowls, I knew the needles also hurt my bandmates, or maybe Amber Alert and Bluetooth weren’t happy with their 25th-century monikers.
But we were ready to rock-and-roll. A glance toward the stage revealed a now-ultra-vintage Fender perched beside a Gibson bass in front of a Gretsch Renown Maple drum kit. When I peeked through the curtain, I glimpsed tightly-packed bodies in various stages of undress. The place reeked of incense and cheap beer. “Hell, yeah,” I screamed.
The robot, apparently a police officer, cuffed me. “You’re under arrest,” she said. “You have the right—“
“For what, you metal monster?” Amber snarled, ignoring the insult’s irony.
The thing tilted its head to reveal an opening and launched a net that ensnared Amber. “For the same offense as your friend,” the robocop said. “Uttering unlicensed words.”
Huh?
Our captor emitted a burst of static and projected a Princess-Leia-style hologram from her torso, which addressed us. “I am your court-appointed attorney. Your agent purchased a two-day license for the lyrics of songs you intend to play but no other words. Scam, you used the word ‘hell,’ and Amber, you said ‘monster.’ The Bar Association acquired the licenses to both, so nobody could refer to lawyers as monsters from hell. Henceforth, I’d advise you to avoid these terms. Don’t say ‘bottom-feeder,’ ‘ambulance-chaser,’ or ‘reptilian predator uncomfortable in their human suit’ either.”
Booking agents had landed us in messes before—it hadn’t been our choice to headline the Branson, Missouri, 2157 Parasites Are God’s Creatures Conclave—but at least we’d been able to call for rescue. Could we even speak the word ‘rescue’?
Apparently, yes. Our drummer, the brains of our organization—Amber and I being the beauties—sang lyrics from the tune with which we’d planned to open. “With dragons farting flames all day, how are we supposed to play?”
When I’d written the song, I’d intended mythical creatures’ flatulence as a metaphor for the struggle for creative expression in a capitalist milieu. Okay, they weren’t the best lyrics I’d penned—idiotic had been our manager’s judgment—but the tune had reached number ninety-seven on Billboard’s Songs-by-Angst-Ridden-Bands-Fronted-By-White-Boys-Badly-Faking-a-British-Accent chart.
“Valid reasoning.” The holographic lawyer perused our contract. “Your prior obligations demand unfettered use of your hands to play your instruments. I’ll submit these mitigating circumstances to the judge. And this reference to Iggy-Pop-style theatrics?”
The lawyer stared at me quizzically, and I nodded.
“Freedom for your…err…private parts, too, then.”
So, no chastity belts required. Brilliant. I hated them, although they had kept us out of trouble at the 2397 Jacksonville, Florida Concert Series for Spider-Human Hybrids with Detachable Genitalia.
With a blast of yellow light, the restraints dematerialized, leaving only the tang of ozone. The attorney hologram disappeared.
“Judgment has been rendered,” the robocop said. “The fines will be subtracted from your share of the revenue. If there’s a shortfall, your livers will be removed and processed into industrial lubricants.” She extended, flexed, and rotated numerous appendages without any screech of metal-on-metal friction. “Go, play your set.”
My muscles quivered as much as the Spandex would allow. Wordlessly—we’d learned our lesson—we took the stage.
From our first chords, the crowd was into it. They danced and sang along; kids sporting our concert T-shirts crowd-surfed or rushed the stage.
As I let our third number’s last chord ring, I drew in breath to address the audience. Amber wisely cut me off with an Iron Maiden riff, saving our livers. Well, what was left of them after centuries of drug use.
Avoiding our typical banter was weird. A songsmith like me might have penned a protest anthem, but my manager had always said I lacked the required gravitas and focus for message songs.
I’d again forgotten to Google the definition of gravitas.
The air was redolent with the musky smell of patchouli. Or maybe that was Bluetooth—we hadn’t showered since 2024. Still, the energy electrified us.
Until the power to our mics and amps cut out during our second encore. Rather than rioting—what you’d expect metalheads to do—our audience, one-by-one, screamed and burst into flames. Fireworks exploded from their foreheads, and their bodies melted like candlewax. Vincent Price laughter rose from the cheap seats; at its crescendo, the entire stadium vanished, leaving only a few dozen police robots.
“What the hell?”
My bandmates stared at me, eyes wide and mouths agape as if they’d transmogrified into horror-film body snatchers.
Oh, no. I’d doomed us with the forbidden, albeit mild, expletive. I bit my lip, shuddered. My fingers, on autopilot, strummed a Black Sabbath tune’s intro, unamplified, at half-speed—a metal dirge. A voiceless eternity loomed, without the right to utter a single “Hail, Satan.” I would so miss Amber’s death growl. A death growl without the growl is just…well…death.
To my shock, when the robocop who’d arrested us earlier wheeled over, she raised an appendage in a throwing-the-horns-two-finger gesture of approval. “You made bank, so your fines are covered. The humans were video from 1980s New Jersey, doctored to put your photos on their shirts. We cops were your real audience. You were simulcast to every police state on the planet, and you rocked. I’m such a groupie. Can I come by your hotel room later?”
Well, I wasn’t locked into a chastity belt. To answer, I voiced lyrics from our first encore. “You’re cold and rigid, cruel, despotic—sex with you will be robotic.”
Our manager hadn’t loved that one either, but four hundred sixty years later, my fan did. Her stainless steel gleamed.
Metal forever!
Allan Dyen-Shapiro is a Ph.D. biochemist who works as an educator in Southwest Florida. He has published short fiction in venues including Dark Matter Magazine and Flash Fiction Online. He also co-edited an anthology of SFF set in the Middle East. Find his blog and short story links at allandyenshapiro.com.
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