Quickly, the soldiers rushed into the building, taking up position, with one on each side of the large barn, and two near the door in case a quick egress was required. The space was musty, and only dimly lit, which combined to set an eerie stage for the dealings of the evening. In the middle of the barn sat a chessboard on a table, with two chairs on either side, as specified. On the opposite end of the barn stood an equally elite unit of the GDR’s finest, along with a shadowy figure clad in a long black overcoat and fedora, much like Archangel was.
“Metatron present.” the soldier breathed into his comms once again to signify the presence of the other String-puller. The soldier knew that the snipers wouldn’t relax. The presence of the String-puller meant nothing to them. Bullets went through String-pullers just as well as everyone else, should the need arise.
“Sir?” the soldier spoke to Archangel. He knew the room was exactly how it needed to be.
“Good job, captain, we’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, Sir.” the soldier responded, before fading back into the shadows.
“Well?” Archangel stated plainly, as he approached the chessboard. He noted the shadowy figure on the other side approached as well.
“Well what?” the aging voice of Metatron responded, as the two finally met in the middle.
“Where the hell are our tunes?” Archangel responded indignantly.
“Oh, goodness me,” the wizened old Metatron responded, motioning at one of his guards. “Captain, would you please?” The soldier responded quickly by walking over to a set of speakers and pushing a button.
“So, you’ve been to school for a year or two, and you know you’ve seen it all…”
“Dead Kennedys?” Archangel asked.
“Oh, I learned my lesson. I’m not letting you force me to listen to the Ramones again. I’m so sick of that happy-go-lucky crap, I could shit myself.”
“Happy-go-lucky… are you…” Archangel yelled, “You can’t possibly be serious!”
“Yes! Happy-go-lucky crap!” the response came, “I’ll concede that they came before; but they didn’t come first, so I don’t have to like them!”
“That makes no sense! Who doesn’t like the Ramones?!”
“Me, that’s who! The Clash; the Buzzcocks; the Subhumans; those are punk bands! As for the Ramones…”
“Don’t you say it!” Archangel interrupted as he seethed with rage, “Don’t you dare say it! Or I swear I’ll…”
“I wasn’t going to say they aren’t punk, you jackanapes. They just don’t represent anything!”
“That’s the fucking point!” Archangel flailed his arms angrily, “Oh, what, now you are going to say that the British movement represented something?!”
“Yes!”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“Oh, I get it. They represent the venerable institution of nothing.” Archangel spat, “How very virtuous!”
“Oh, and I suppose The Ramones stood for a version of nothing that was somehow more meaningful?” Metatron argued, red-faced, “Face it! Malcolm McLaren perfected something that the Ramones couldn’t have possibly hoped to grasp! And he defined it!”
“Of all the uneducated, bigoted hate-speech I’ve heard over the years…” Archangel swore, “Look, you don’t have to like good music if you don’t want to. But don’t you dare speak ill of them!”
“Okay, okay. I’m not…” Metatron placated, “I wouldn’t speak ill. I just…”
“You called them ‘happy-go-lucky crap’! Wars have been fought for far less!”
“Okay, I can see that I might have…”
“Just wars, old man! Entirely justified wars!”
“All that I’m saying is that they lacked vision!”
“Oh, here you are, all high and mighty, talking about how the Brits had the vision to represent ‘nothing’! But when I say that the Ramones stood for the exact same futureless-ness without needing a clothing store to help them do it, you…”
“Oh, come now! What did the Ramones really do? Protest hippy music by wearing leather jackets and shooting heroin?!
“Well, seeing as how McLaren basically took those two things and decided to make a band entirely out of them…”
“Perfect a band out of them, you mean!” Metatron corrected. “Complete with actual lyrics!”
“That the band didn’t even write!”
“At least they were conscientious!”
“Oh, fine! If your British punk scene was so much purer than the scene it all started from, then how do you explain the New Wave movement? That was…”
“Well, where was it all supposed to go?! They had reached critical mass; it wasn’t something that could last forever!”
“They didn’t have to welcome it’s death!”
“’Welcoming death’ is the point!” the older Metatron seethed, “You either kill your scene yourself, so that it lives forever in the state that it died in, or you let the Establishment march right in with a bunch of mindless, pretty ‘scene followers’ and let them delude it into a mindless cash grab!… which is precisely what the synthesizer did, by my reckoning!… of all the godless horrors: punk rock dance music!”
“It sounds like your trying to lump my punks in with all of that! We would have never allowed that. Not the Ramones, not Iggy, not Richard Hell, no one.”
“Nonsense! Your entire scene came from Andy Worhol! The man built a career off of the artistic equivalent of someone else’s stamp collection! I’m surprised he didn’t shoot an eight-hour video of a drag queen holding a single button on a synthesizer, while main-lining for eight hours straight, all while a few of your leather-clad, junkie malcontents throw a rock concert in their girlfriends’ clothing… in front of their boyfriends’ boyfriends!”
“Oh, now you’ve crossed the line!” Archangel shouted, slamming his hands down on the table. “Don’t confuse your poor understanding of art with our anthology of musical excellence!”
“And don’t confuse what you started with what I’ll finish!” Metatron slammed back.
“The hell are you going to do about it?”
“Murder you where you stand!”
“I’ll bury you, old man!” Archangel yelled.
“You and what army?!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“I’m fettered by good taste, that’s what’s wrong with me!” Metatron screamed back.
For a second, the two paused and composed themselves, smoothing out their clothing and clenching their hands in an irritated fashion. Neither wanted to be the first to treat with the other; especially after such dire insults had been levied. But the night must progress on, and so Archangel was the first to proverbially doff his hat.
“I’m not calling you Grandfather, so don’t ask.”
“You had better not. I’m already too old. I’m not letting you make me any older than I already am.”
“You’re only a full fifteen years older than me.” Archangel said plainly.
“Ah yes, such a young man.” Metatron sneered. “How long does it take for you to pee?”
“Unfortunately, far too long.” he replied, sadly, before he turned to the team of GDR Special Forces men and shouted, “Enjoy your youth, Soldiers. Once you hit fifty, getting it up will be the least of your worries.”
The room erupted in laughter then, with soldiers on both sides of the barn leaning over in great guffaws. In seconds, the tension dissipated from the room like so much steam. The soldiers certainly weren’t friends and perhaps never would be. Yet for the time being, they all bathed in the mutual comradery of loud music and dick jokes.