The Lion and the Fury

Riff Ryder and Thumper Thompson, the newest additions to the Lions’ Lair, Lenny Lemminger’s band, wait in Riff’s ancient Volvo outside of the Naughty Nectar Saloon.

“I think I need to get my eyes checked,” Thumper says. “The building looks like it’s taking a left-hand turn.”

“Your eyes are fine. It’s lopsided.”

“Another dive bar. Is it safe?” Thumper asks.

“This is rock n’ roll,” Riff replies. “Nothing is safe.”

Riff and Thumper have known each other for a week but have already formed a bond based on their love of music and mutual poverty. Forty-six-year-old Riff is the group’s veteran. He covers his receding hairline with a variety of hats and berets. A lifelong musician, he’s been impressing his new bandmates with tales of having been the guitarist for Davey Jones of the Monkees. He’s taken the job as Lenny Lemminger’s band leader because he’s been promised a share of the ticket sales.

A mere 5'5”, Thumper is blessed with long fingers and a head of bountiful dark hair. An electrician by trade, he’s a weekend musician and considers playing for Lenny Lemminger a step up.

A vintage black Lincoln town car pulls into the parking lot. A short, squat man with a furry red mustache and beard dressed in denim and a greasy cowboy hat steps out. He promptly pitches face forward.

“And people think being in a rock band is glamorous,” Riff says. “Let’s go pick up the boss.”

Lenny “the Lion” Lemminger has packed a lot of living into his forty-five years. After leaving his parents' farm in Manitoba at eighteen, he started out as a bus driver, which lasted for three years until he tried to choke out a non-paying passenger. He’s been a carpenter, an ice cream vendor, and a clown for kids’ parties, and has asked a lot of people if they’d like fries with that. His music career started when he got looped at the Naughty Nectar one night and won a karaoke competition. Frank Fortune, the bar's owner, signed him to a performance contract.

Lenny’s claim to rock and roll fame is his raucous version of the blues chestnut, “Big Boss Man,” recorded ten years ago. He’s called the Lion because of his all-out, throaty wail and ability to command the stage. Lenny became the leader of a smoking ten-piece rock/R&B band, parlaying “Big Boss Man”’s top ten success into worldwide tours. Subsequent singles bombed, and eventually Lenny found himself back on the nightclub circuit, playing with small bands made up of amateur musicians he found on Craigslist.

Riff and Thumper pull Lenny to his feet. A line of drool issues from the side of his mouth. Lenny briefly lifts his head, slurring, “Hello, boys. Ready to become the kings of rock?”

***

The pair drag Lenny inside. They’re met by a slim, radiant brunette with striking violet-colored eyes and a pleasing smile.

“I see you stumbled upon the legendary Lion. Put him in the office. I’ll fix him up.”

“Who is that?” Thumper asks.

“Fiona, the owner’s wife. If you want to keep this gig and your health, you’ll keep your eyes and your hands to yourself.”

The Naughty Nectar is a former ramshackle barn that can hold two hundred rowdy, inebriated people. Frank Fortune assured the group that the place is always filled, but Riff is concerned about the sign in the hallway that says all weapons must be checked at the door. The bouncers, two rock-hard six-footers, carry brass knuckles, and it’s common for them to pat customers down before letting them in.

Riff and Thumper begin setting up as the rest of the band filters in. Drummer Bolt Breaker’s frequent thousand-yard stares and mum attitude worry Riff, but his skills help assuage his concern.

***

The thunder of souped-up engines deafens the group. A chain of two dozen Harley-Davidson motorcycles swings into the parking lot. A crowd of tough, bearded, leather-clad bikers, their muscular arms bearing skull and crossbones tattoos, disembark, accompanied by a slew of equally threatening-looking biker chicks sporting studded jackets and bandanas.

“Man, we’d better be good,” Thumper says.

“So, this is why Frank had us practice all those southern rock songs,” Riff replies.

“What do we do if somebody yells, ‘Freebird?’”

“Just smile and put yourself on autopilot for eight minutes.”

***

Revitalized, Lenny joins the band on stage, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Isn’t that what got you into trouble in the first place?” Riff asks.

Lenny gives Riff a devilish grin, tilting his cowboy hat. “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

A strange-looking man sipping a martini leans against the bar, staring at them as they finish their sound check. Thumper is fascinated by the pasty man’s attempt to hide his alopecia with an ill-fitting toupee and fake eyebrows.

“Who’s that freak?” he asks Lenny.

“That’s Frank Fortune. He owns the place. If he asks for ‘Freebird,’ we’re playin’ it. I’ve been friends with Frank for over fifteen years. He’s… Let’s say he’s connected. He used to run packages from here in Vegas to Compton.”

“Packages of what?” Riff asks naively.

“Packages that made him a thousand bucks a day when he was eighteen. He used that money to buy this place. Don’t mistake his appearance for a lack of masculinity. He’s from Texas, and Texans don’t scare easy. Frank once carved up a musclehead with a knife who made fun of him. His wife’s a real babe, and he swears she cheats on him. When he’s not cheatin’ on her, he can get a little surly. The stress of runnin’ this place and followin’ his wife around has made him a three-pack-a-day smoker, and he eats tranquilizers and sleeping pills like candy.”

The Lion’s Lair plays at the Naughty Nectar every Friday and Saturday for the next month and is quickly officially dubbed “the house band.”

Lenny starts showing up minutes from showtime, bleary-eyed and staggering. Once on stage, he continues to ignite like a Roman candle, giving incendiary performances. Then one Friday night, one of the ever-present blonde biker chicks catches his eye. He misses the next night’s show, forcing Thumper to be elevated from back-up to lead singer.

“You boys can sure play,” Frank comments between sets. “But that bass player sings like a cow bein’ ground up for taco meat. You’d better get a backup singer pronto. The crowd’s restless. I don’t wanna be moppin’ your blood up off the floor.”

“Why don’t you try singing a few songs?” Thumper asks Riff.

“Uh-uh. My voice would make Yoko Ono cry. I got an idea, though. My cousin, Lance Fury, sings like a bird, and he’s nearby. Let me give him a call.”

A few minutes later, a tall, pale man, dressed in black with a long waistcoat, ruffled lace white shirt, a top hat, and knee-high boots, passes by the drop-jawed biker audience.

“You didn’t tell me he’s a goth! He’s wearing eyeshadow and makeup!” Thumper laments. “He’s gonna get us killed!”

The crowd rumbles as Frank stomps toward Riff. “I said get a lead singer, not a vampire.”

“Trust me, you won’t be sorry.”

Stares of skepticism turn into smiles of approval when Lance performs the band’s set list with passion and hard-rock grit.

During a keyboard solo, Riff whispers to Thumper, “Notice something different?”

“The crowd…They’re dancing!”

After a rump-shaking set of songs, the bikers are stunned into silence when the band unveils their version of the ballad, “Unchained Melody.”

The scariest-looking biker in the room gently takes his wife’s hand, and the couple slow dances to the tune. Other couples follow suit.

By the end of the song, everyone in the bar is fighting back tears.

The band gets three loud and appreciative encores. After the last song, an energetic version of “Try a Little Tenderness,” the roaring crowd rushes the stage to compliment Lance on his performance.

Thumper smiles at their good fortune. “Wait until the Lion finds out the Fury’s the new king of the rock and roll jungle.”

***

Lance Fury’s popularity continues to soar. The 50/50 split in vocals between Lance and Lenny soon dissolves into 60/40, then 70/30 in Lance’s favor.

Lance is given a makeover, and Frank takes advantage of his rock god looks, setting up an autograph table and printing T-shirts with his face on them. Lenny gets a T-shirt as well, but Lance’s are the ones that sell out.

Frank watches Lenny down his third shot of whiskey in the past minute.

“You gonna be able to perform?”

“I done my singin’ for the night. Four songs. I’m an afterthought in my own frickin’ band.”

“You benefit from all this. You and Ryder are gettin’ part of the door receipts; the others are on salary, except for Lance. I made a special deal with him. But look at it this way, Lance is gonna make you rich.”

“But I’m the star. I’m Lenny the Lion. Mr. Big Boss Man!”

“Maybe you oughta think about transitionin’ to bar manager. We’re gonna fix the floor's tilt and add more space so we can accommodate a bigger crowd. I need somebody watchin’ the till that I can trust.”

Lenny downs another shot. “You mean control. If you ever suggest I hang it up again, I’ll knock that squirrel you’re wearin’ on top of your head off.”

Frank leans into Lenny, his fake eyebrows arched in anger. “You forgettin’ who you’re talkin’ to has been? You sit there soppin’ up my booze, makin’ money off a guy three times as talented as you, and you complain. It’s about time you earned your keep around here. You used to work in construction. Get your hammer and a saw. You’re gonna help build the bar’s extension.”

“I got better things to do.”

“Like drink? You can either help build the new walls and floors or end up inside of them.”

***

A month after christening the bar’s expansion, Lenny teeters in, immersed in a drunken froth. Looking at the crowd of men in pleated slacks and dress shirts, and the women in smart blouses and skirts, he laments, “Where’s our crowd gone? Where’s the bikers?”

“Those are the bikers,” Riff replies. “Our music’s become more sophisticated. It’s rubbed off on them.”

“What? This ain’t rock n’ roll no more. This is all because of your slick cousin. His days in the Lions' Lair are numbered.”

“We changed our name to The Swarm last month, remember?”

***

Lenny grabs onto the microphone stand, swaying and belching.

“Evenin’ folks. You remember me. I’m the star…”

“Not anymore!” a voice rings out.

“Well, I’m gonna show you why they call me the Lion, and why I’m still king of this outfit.”

The band launches into “Big Boss Man,” Lenny’s signature tune.

As Riff plays the song’s fiery solo, Lenny begins spinning and camel walking past him. The crowd responds with hoots and hollers, egging Lenny on.

“Leave well enough alone,” Riff cautions.

Standing at the end of the stage, Lenny breaks into a speedy run, launching himself into the air, intending to land center stage. He lands on Bolt Breaker’s drum kit, sending his tom-toms and cymbals flying.

Lenny looks up at the drummer’s unblinking, incensed stare.

“…Now, Bolt…”

The last thing he sees is Bolt’s fist heading for his face.

***

Lenny spends the next two weeks convalescing and looking for a new drummer. Riff is the only one who comes to check on him, and Lenny quickly discovers he has an agenda.

“We want to start doing more original material with Lance. He’s written some great songs.”

Lenny gulps from the afternoon’s second bottle of Jack Daniels.

“We ain’t runnin’ open mike night for poets! This is rock n’ roll! We’re a cover band. Why struggle with stuff nobody’s gonna listen to when there are so many classic songs to play?”

Riff squirms in his chair. “We’ve been playing Lance’s songs since you’ve been on the mend. The crowd loves them.”

“Traitor! That’s it! I’ve been coddlin’ Fury since he joined. Enough is enough. It’s still my band.”

“That’s another issue. Mr. Fortune signed all of us to new contracts. He brought back Bolt, and he’s agreed to back us. We’re going to record Lance’s songs and start touring. He told me to come here and tell you, to see if you still wanted to be part of the band. Mr. Fortune says he’ll help you find another band if you want to stay at the Nectar.

“This isn’t what I signed up for. It’s him or me, Riff.”

“…Well, then…Have a good life, Lenny…”

***

At first, Lenny is up for the challenge of starting over. The thin crowds gradually build up to respectability. Regaining his confidence, Lenny asks Frank to finance a new single. Flush from the success of Lance Fury and the Swarm’s tour, he agrees, providing he gets a hefty cut.

Lenny’s single, a remake of “Turn on Your Lovelight,” flops.

One night, while sipping Coca-Cola at the bar, Lenny watches a reporter for Entertainment Tonight rave about Lance and the Swarm’s new album.

“It’s as perfect as anything done by the Beatles. It’s sold four million copies already and shows no signs of slowing down. The group’s worldwide tour is sold out.”

Lenny waves Mickey, the bartender, over.

“Double shot of Jack.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “But Lenny, you’ve been doin’ so well. You’ve got what, eight months of sobriety? And you’ve got a show to do. There’s lotsa people here who’ve come to see the man who discovered Lance Fury.”

“I need a shot, Mickey, not an update. And don’t mention that traitor’s name again.”

Lenny puts down three double shots. A soothing pat on his back draws his attention.

Fiona’s features are more blurry than usual, but still radiant.

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for yourself, Lenny. Lots of artists who discovered big acts went on to success.”

“Yeah, sure. People remember the Beatles, but they’re hard-pressed to remember that Pete Best was their original drummer. Have you ever heard of Ray Tabano?”

“No, I haven’t,” Fiona admits.

“He was Aerosmith’s original bassist. Now, he’s a caterer.”

“What about Peter Gabriel? He left Genesis, and he’s still making music. They aren’t.”

“Neither am I. I’m a caricature of myself.”

“But you’ve still got a career, and you’ve got a show to do. Frank left me in charge here while he’s touring the world with Lance and the Swarm. You know what’ll happen if you cancel.”

“Please don’t say his name…”

“Sorry. I’ve got just what you need to boost your confidence. Come back to the office with me.”

***

Lenny struts onto the stage. “This is where rock n’ roll started… With the Lion! Now hear me roar!”

Lenny’s set starts well. A crack begins to show when he sings the wrong lyrics to “Hotel California.”

“…On a dark dessert island, cool whip in my hair… Warm smell of fajitas, frying up in my lair…”

Lenny slurs the words he remembers, stumbling around the stage. When fans boo, he shouts, “Listen to the Lion roar!” back at them.

Lenny careens into the drum kit, knocking over the high hat.

“You makin’ trouble again, Bolt? I’ll fire your crazy butt again!”

“I’m not Bolt Breaker,” the drummer replies. “I wish I was him. That way I wouldn’t be stuck playing with the Lion’s ghost.”

Lenny fakes his way through the next two numbers. Clutching his chest and breathing hard, he announces, “We’re gonna turn on your love light!”

The band launches into “Turn on Your Lovelight,” quickly grinding to a halt when they realize that their prone lead singer’s light is out.

***

Sitting in the passenger’s seat of Lenny’s forlorn Lincoln, Frank bounces a paper bag on his knee as he stares at the Naughty Nectar.

“Thanks for picking me up at the airport, Lenny.”

“You stayin’ long?”

“Nope, and there’s no need to tell anybody I was here. Lance and the boys are recordin’ in L.A. I’m joinin’ them tomorrow…I’m gonna miss this place…”

“What do you mean?”

“I sold the joint last week. Fiona didn’t tell you?”

“We haven’t talked much since I had the heart attack.”

“So, you can’t perform anymore?”

“The doc said it could kill me. They put four stents in me. I’ve been a couch potato for the last few months.”

“You must need money.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty badly bent. I owe half a million for the surgery and my hospital stay.”

“I can help you make a dent in that.”

Reaching into his pocket, Frank hands Lenny an envelope.

“There’s fifty G’s in there.”

“What do I have to do to earn it?”

“Take me to my wife’s apartment.”

“I heard you two were separated.”

“She’s been unfaithful. Mickey, the bartender, told me. Three months on the road with Lance, makin’ enough money to set us up for life, and this is how she treats me. I need to talk to her. It’ll only take you a few minutes.”

***

Frank returns to the car. “Take me to the airport.”

Lenny notices the scratches on his face.

“One more favor. Hold onto this for me,” Frank says, handing Lenny the paper bag.

***

Flush with cash, Lenny forgets about the bag, leaving it in his car.

He’s jostled from his sleep the following afternoon. Four officers are standing over him, their guns drawn.

“Hands up!”

“What? What did I do?”

One of the officers shows Lenny the bag.

Carefully opening it, the officer pulls out a blood-stained knife.

“You killed Fiona Fortune with this. Mickey, the bartender at the Naughty Nectar, said you and Ms. Fortune have been seeing each other behind her husband’s back, and you’ve had your share of arguments about your sobriety. We contacted Frank Fortune in L.A., and he confirmed it. Looks like your next concert will be in prison.”