This is a daft short story I wrote in two hours – right before the deadline after the editor got in touch to say they had an emergency gap in the schedule. It could read better to be honest, but for such a rush job, I was pretty impressed with myself.
Three Lepers Leg It
A short fiction of 2000 words – by Spanner
With careful, controlled steps, the passengers of Murray’s Day Tripping Coach disembarked, and followed the carefully prepared path to the TV studio. The paving had been checked for trip hazards, all manner of protrusions had been removed and a loose quarantine had been established to make the trip as safe as possible for the Isle of Dogs Leper Colony’s day out.
The show’s producer bravely extended a hand to the colony’s executive manager, Steve Varley, though Steve graciously declined. Not that Hansen’s Disease is particularly contagious, but sufferers quickly learn not to expose their extremities to unnecessary risk. The strap of the producers gaudy Rolex could mean the loss of a hand should his welcoming shake be too vigorous, as it often is with such slick palm-pressers as this.
No. For a leper, it’s best to be considered cold of emotion and remain courteously distant than lose a limb for want of a gratuitous civility. The producer threw on a mask of casual refrain and led the way to the specially prepared seating area, where the colony could enjoy the much anticipated return of Cheers from the excitement of the studio audience.
“Dudes!” Doug whispered to his two mates, in one of those really loud undertones that everyone can easily hear. “Check this out! It’s Bellerophon’s changing room. I told you they were doing the warm up show!” The three of them opened their faces in awe to see the smashed up dressing room and empty whiskey bottles of the world famous bell ringing trio, Bellerophon.
“Whoa dude! It is! That’s totally their gear over there! I’d recognise those bells anywhere!” Stammered Joel, in an even louder whisper than Doug’s. At the back of the room was a table laid out with varying sizes of bells, interspersed with toppled whisky and wine bottles, and enough empty beer cans to keep a homeless person in champagne and caviar for a fortnight.
Back on the Isle of Dogs, the young lepers had a pile of unboxed Bellerophon CDs (the boxes have sharp corners and must be removed from the colony upon purchase), and followed their musical icon’s rock’n'roll lifestyles avidly.
They even volunteered for regular market duty, all so they could practice their renditions of Bellerophon’s high energy bell ringing anthems for the nervous, yet captivated crowds of clean locals. They’d even garnered a small following of stall holders who regularly requested the lads perform their own compositions, which they were more than happy to do. Bellerophon were a beacon for those who spent their life under the cloak and bell.
“But what about the show?”, stammered Joel. “We’ve got to stay with the rest of the colony. We can’t just leg it, can we?” As soon as he said it, he realised he’d answered his own question, and smiles crept around the backs of their heads and laid across their faces.
As the precession of well dressed outcasts made its way to the tiered seating of the Cheers studio, the three lads ducked into the changing room for a glimpse at their clanger hero musicians. Having seen every backstage special, controversial chat show and ‘on tour with’ rockumentary featuring the bad boys of bell ringing, it came as no surprise that two of them were passed out on the sofa, while the other slept noisily on a pile of comatose groupies.
With a half-hearted, awestruck effort, Greg tentatively tried to rouse the group, though it quickly became apparent they were alone in the room. The young untouchables began to explore for some kind of memento to act as undeniable proof they had met the bell-rock heroes. Doug found himself by the table of well rung bells and, with a cursory glance over his shoulder to make sure the sleeping stars were still out cold, gave it a naughty tinkle.
This was a high quality Clangercaster Demon Song; infinitely sweeter than the colony’s off-the-shelf brass affairs. Greg and Joel joined him, and before they knew what they were doing, a high voltage performance of Bellerophon’s all time great, “Bell Out Of Hat” was ringing through the TV studio’s halls.
A vigorous clapping in the doorway brought them to a panicked halt. None of them daring to turn around, in case Varley had caught them up to their dangerous, tactile antics again. The lads had heard his fierce chastisements more than a few times in the last year since Bellerophon had tried to make another comeback.
But, as luck would have it, the clapping from the doorway was in praise of their musical talents. A squirrelly youth in huge headphones carrying a full clipboard under his arm finished his enthusiastic applause and beamed as he spoke to them.
“Wow! You guys have still got it! My mum used to play me Bellerophon when I was a kid, and I’ve got everything you’ve ever made. And they said you’d lost it! Ha! You’re on in five minutes, guys. Knock ‘em dead!” and he was gone, thrilled to have met his musical idols.
Doug, Joel and Greg exchanged confused glances for fully three minutes before Joel finally said what they were all thinking.
“There are quite a few spare costumes in here. Maybe no one would notice? Bellerophon haven’t been on TV for nearly ten years.” he was trying to convince himself as much as his friends. Doug, usually the voice of reason, suddenly sprang into action.
“This is it! This is our chance! We’re always talking about how we never get to leave the colony; how lepers are always looked on as useless. If we don’t do this, we’ll never get another opportunity.” He was shaking with excitement.
“But… we can’t compare to Bellerophon. These guys wrote the book on bell rockin’! Who are we to upstage them?” asked Greg. If anyone was the risk taker of the three, it was usually Greg. He used corkscrews, he owned a pair of knitting needles. He even walked barefoot through the colony’s car park once. Doug took the lead.
“Look. I’m not saying we won’t get chucked off the Isle for this, but we’re never going to be able to do it again – fact!” His enthusiasm spread to his friends, and in a flurry of bruised limbs, they were wearing the long, black leather cloaks of their rock idols with the hoods pulled down, casting ominous shadows across their purple faces. They wheeled the bell table out toward the stage.
While the compare announced the triumphant return of not only the world famous sitcom, Cheers, but also the bad boys of bell ringing, the table rolled out onto the stage. Mumbles were heard from the crowd about how much shorter celebrities are in real life.
All of a sudden, spotlights trained in on clocked lepers, burning the sight from their heads so they had no idea what sort of crowd was watching them. From the meek applause, it wasn’t the kind of audience who generally went to high voltage bell-rock concerts. Although they didn’t know it, the bottom left side of the seating was rife with clapping, but it was so gentle it barely made a sound. Lepers know better than to beat their hands together too forcefully.
The trio suddenly became acutely aware the entire studio was in silence; waiting for them to begin. Nerves took hold, and none of them could remember their own name, let alone the opening chimes of “Bell Out Of Hat”.
Doug looked up and down the table in a panic, when he saw a crushed beer can jammed under the bell he’d first picked up in the dressing room. It was the first note of the song they’d played, and for lack of a better idea, he snatched it up and feebly rang it.
For what seemed like an eternity, the high pitched chime echoed across the studio, while members of the audience coughed awkwardly. Doug’s heart was about to fall out of his mouth, when the low, sweet clang of a bass bell filled the air. It was Greg, and his hard rock instincts had apparently kicked in. He rang out another three notes when Joel’s numb fingers suddenly remembered their rhythm, and within five seconds, the trio were back in the market place, ringing to the cheers of bell-rockin’ grocery shoppers.
Four minutes and twelve seconds later, the final bell of the song tolled, and once again the studio was a desert of silence, the echoes disappearing fast. The trio’s passion hung by a thread, when a sudden and familiar cheer burst the silent air.
It was Varley. Jumping up and down in his seat and clapping like a lunatic. Quickly, the rest of the crowd leapt to its feet and competed with Varley for the loudest applause. The three lads put down their bells and took a well earned bow, throwing back their hoods to see the appreciation on their new fans.
Abruptly, the clapping ceased. When the audience saw that it wasn’t Bellerophon on stage, but a motley band of unclean outcasts, paper cups, hot dogs and other refreshment based missiles were thrown at the apologetic compare who had jumped in front of impostors.
The scene turned ugly as the audience demanded the famous bell-rockers they had come to see.The squirrelly stage hand rushed up to the compare, using his clipboard as a shield against the flying food, and told him they were passed out in the dressing room. The first thrown chair landed on the stage, knocking Norm’s stool from its place at the corner of Sam’s bar. Doug pulled his friends in close for a discussion.
“This is bad. If any of that stuff hits our people, they’re in big trouble. We gotta do something!” the urgency in his voice was no longer to do with a passing chance at fame; his friends from the colony were in serious danger. The trio looked over to see the day trippers huddling against the edge of the stage, unable to get out due to the mass of spikey camera equipment on the floor. Greg furrowed his brow, and a look of determination spread across his blotchy face.
“They’re only gonna get worse if we play more Bellerophon. We gotta give ‘em something new. Something we wrote!” A light went on inside Joel’s blue-black head as he heard this.
“This is an angry crowd, right? Let’s give ‘em some angry music. Let’s introduce ‘em to Bell-Rap!” The three untouchables nodded in solidarity and took up their bells. Doug snatched the microphone from the wailing compare and spoke to the savage, rioting crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please listen!” No one paid the slightest attention. Greg leaned over to Doug’s ear.
“Come on dude! Take control! Don’t ask them a favour; tell ‘em how it is!”
Doug’s brow furrowed once more and he stood tall as belted out a bass bell directly into the microphone. The crowd stopped in mid-rebellion and gawped at the stage.
“This is a new one, mother fuckers, called “Yo, Fuck The Chimera!” Set your faces to stun! BRING IT!” and with that, the three unassuming young exiles exploded in a dynamic cacophony of high octane ringing and hard core gangster rap, astonishing the crowd and bringing down the house with their melodic chiming and low-ride lyrics.
The riot immediately turned into a genial dance frenzy, with audience members, lepers and b-list celebrities uniting to the thrill of Yo, Fuck The Chimera’s hypnotic harmony and hardcore bell-rap. While the TV crew cleaned up the set of the Cheers bar, the three lepers beat out everything in their gangster ringing repertoire, keeping the rabid crowd white hot, yet completely under control.
The trio could swear there was a slight tingling in their numb fingers from the relentless percussion of 26 different clangers. With sweat pouring from their red faces, they took another bow, and this time, the crowd only threw their raucous cheers.
When it was finally time for the sitcom to begin, a red faced Ted Dansen approached the band.
“You guys have got it! I mean, you could be big! You can have it all! Hang around after the show, ok. We’ve gotta talk.” Before they could answer, the reprimanding tones of Steve Varley brought their spirits momentarily crashing to the ground.
“So you went ahead and practiced, despite what I said? I only go on at you about this stuff because I want you to live as normal and productive lives as possible, you know? But I gotta admit, that was utterly incredible!” a huge beaming euphoria spread across his mottled face. “That show did more for leper rights than a decade of protesting! My hat’s off to you boys. The colony thanks you for what you’ve done for it, and we won’t stand in the way of your dreams. Got hit the big time!” Amazed at this totally unexpected source of approval, the lads looked over at the day trippers, still huddling in the corner, but every one of them more alive than they’d felt in a long time.
Doug turned to the balding actor.
“Sorry Mr Dansen, but we’ve already got everything we need. Our place is on the isle with our friends and family.” The three outcasts waved to their colony, who collectively blushed with pride, although it took a trained eye to spot it.
While the crowd booed, hissed and resumed throwing chairs at the long outdated sitcom, the untouchable day trippers gathered up the Clangercaster bell collection and helped the lads load them onto the coach.
They had no need to stay and see the show. They had been given a gift that no leper can ever expect to receive; a warm, tingly feeling that ran from their head to their toes, from their hearts to their finger tips, all thanks to their bell ringing liberators.