In which gypsy inherits the kingdom of retail music

Slowly, the queen of the forest approached the glade. Had there been any onlookers, they would have wondered why she who owned this magni- ficent land skulked about like a common thief, hiding from the light, creeping through the few open spaces, darting behind an ancient marshall here, a gong there, or a clump of risers crowned with new spring zildjians, shimmering in the soft glow that effused the air.

Ever so carefully, slowly, quietly, gypsy, queen of the forest, lord of music, executrix of rabbits' wills, approached the darkest spot in the land. In this forbidden, out of the way spot, behind the tall, gangly, wiry musicwrack, there was an area normally frequented by none but the dreaded unionlectrishun, harbinger of evil sparks and large invoices.

Tonight, on this, the much-celebrated grand-opening eve, when the queen by rights ought to be regaling her friends and investors with drink, food, song, and zepplin-clone-troubadores, this eve of coming into formal posession of her kingdom, she ought not to be here, alone, in the dark, seeking out who knows what.

Coming closer, ever quietly, not even the soles of her hand-made moccasins (a present from a distant netter hoping for royal favors in the form of discounts at the slave market when buying roadies) whispereing as they sailed gently over the new-mown, spring-purple, shag carpet, gypsy approached the corner.

Using all her stealth, even that stealth normally kept secret for national defense (donated by the U.S. DOD), gypsy moved up next to the only sound in the land, a quiet, sucking noise in that horrid corner of the forest. As her eyes adjusted to the total darkness, she found that which she sought, and was overwhelmed with a royal, righteous fury.

With the speed of the long-lost jimihendrixfingers, the queen leapt into the corner. Grabbing the vampire bat by the throat, she snatched it from the neck of her royal slave (curled up in a ball, and snoring quietly) and beat it senseless against the nearest 50 watt rock.

"I TOLD you not to sleep here, stupid!" she yelled at the quietly-sleeping ball. Sighing, she threw the bat over her shoulder, picked up her royal helper (STILL curled into a ball and snoring like a heavy metal fuzz unit gone bad) in her royal glove, and trudged back towards her palace, looking for all the world like a very unroyal child with whom noone would play.

Last updated: 2 Apr 1994

Copyright 1989, 1994 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

This article may be freely distributed via computer network or other electronic media, or printed out from such media, for personal use only. Any non-personal (ie, commercial) use of this article voids the warranty which prevents my wasting hundreds, if not thousands, of yours and my dollars in lawsuits. Commercial copy permission may be granted if, in the author's sole opinion, other usage of this article is for purposes the author holds near and dear to his heart and/or wallet. For such permission, contact the author via email at roadkills.r.us@XYZZY.gmail.com [remove the "XYZZY." to make things work!] or via mail at the address below. Appearing in person at the author's residence during daylight hours for a personal audience is also permitted, provided no weapons are brought along. This notice contains no MSG, sugar, artificial sweeteners, sunlight, air, or other known carcinogenic substances or energy forms.

This copyright may be freely used, distributed and modified subject to the conditions noted above in the preceeding paragraph.