Date: 8-23-1980

TO: Riker, Fat

FROM: Richards, Tom
Marketing Sub-Manager, Corn Derivatives Division

SUBJECT: Corn Promotional Tour

To the members of Fat Riker, I would like to congratulate you for being selected as Nutracorn’s official spokespersons for the southeastern division of our American promotional tour for our new Corn Derivatives division. The selection process was intense, but in the end you prevailed over a field of nearly half a dozen reasonably qualified candidates. We felt the strength of your local renown in the mid-eastern Tennessee region coupled with your reasonable compensation requirements made you stand far above the rest of the pack. You can be assured; your requested monthly shipment of corn niblets will not be late.

Please be aware we are dispatching two Nutracorn agents to act as your handlers during this tour. They will have all of the finer details regarding the tour stops and show dates. Please show them the same respect you would show any of your fans.

We look forward to hearing reports of your progress throughout the tour. Let’s show the people of marketing regions 4 – 23 what corn derivatives are all about!

TWR;gdl

Dictated But Not Read

NUTRACORN CORPORATION

Date: 8-25-1980

TO: Riker, Fat

FROM: Richards, Tom
Marketing Sub-Manager, Corn Derivatives Division

SUBJECT: Agent Treatment

Misters Fat Riker, I would like to start off by thanking you again for agreeing to be our Southeastern Corn Derivatives Promotional Spokesperson. It is surely a demanding task and we are appreciative of your future hard work in that arena. However, I must write to protest the treatment of your Nutracorn approved handlers.

It is perhaps our fault that we assumed that when you listed the “Fat Riker Cave” as your address, we did not believe it to be an actual cave. We presumed it was some appropriately civilized recording studio or trendy loft. The agents did not expect to have to walk through half a mile of undergrowth after an unpaved road abruptly ended in a corn field five miles outside of town. Though we appreciate your dedication to corn, this was a surprising development. Furthermore, they did not anticipate the gauntlet of homemade booby traps that littered the trail as it passed through a forest. You may be happy to know that Agent Walter’s leg is doing just fine after being wounded by that automated dart launcher.

The agents were appalled at your apparent living conditions in the “Fat Riker Cave”. I have heard reports of stacks of amplifiers half submerged in underground creeks and piles of copper tubing which I shall not speculate about. They were again pleased to see your enthusiasm for corn was not overstated and reported the band seems to be subsisting solely on a diet of hominy and cream corn. The lack of electricity threw them for a loop, as did the extensive underground opossum farming operations.

We at the Nutracorn Corn Derivatives Division must insist you treat our employees with respect while they are in your care. They are cherished members of our team and will be essential to the success of this promotional tour. Agent Anderson will be sent to replace Agent Walter for the duration of the tour. Please deactivate all hazardous security measures and muzzle all suspected rabid opossums before she arrives.

TWR;gdl

Dictated But Not Read

NUTRACORN CORPORATION

Date: 8-29-1980

TO: Riker, Fat

FROM: Richards, Tom
Marketing Sub-Manager, Corn Derivatives Division

SUBJECT: Where Are You?

To all appropriate Fat Riker personnel: please respond as soon as possible. Agent Anderson arrived at the Fat Riker Cave two days ago and reports no contact with you. While she was able to successfully navigate through the onslaught of pit falls, arrow traps and quicksand leading to the cavern, she claims to have not been successful in locating either the band or Agent Phillips. She further reports that the cave seems to have been cleared out of all band equipment save for a few rusty oboes in a pile in the corner. A child, whom she claims speaks no language at all, seems to have been left in charge of the opossum farm but was unhelpful in her search.

These disturbing missives lend further validity to the rumors we are hearing from the Dandridge branch of Nutracorn’s Camping Equipment Division about unapproved promotional shows being hosted late at night in nearby Newport and Parrottsville. If these shows are indeed being performed by Fat Riker, I must implore you to stop. Those towns are well outside of the tour’s pre-planned consumer zones and drop the effective Impact Per Performance (IPP) considerably below the levels we promised marketing this tour would achieve.

Please proceed with all due haste to your first planned tour stop in the Maryville/Alcoa area. We are sending Agent Anderson to rein you in if she can find you.

Tom Richards

Post Script: Please advise how Agent Anderson may remove an infestation of opossums from her car’s backseat.

NUTRACORN CORPORATION

Date: 9-4-1980

TO: Riker, Fat

FROM: Greene, Cliff
Contract Enforcement Officer, Corn Derivatives Division

SUBJECT: Violation of Contract

Misters Riker, please be aware that as of now Nutracorn Corporation considers you in breach of contract. You have missed the first two dates on your schedule while continuing to perform unplanned and unlicensed corn derivative themed shows outside the defined marketing areas.

It is my duty to inform you that your future corn niblet shipments will delayed until such a time that you are considered to be back within contract. This will happen after you have completed at least 51% of the QUALIFYING tour dates as per the schedule presented to you by Agent Phillips. Be aware that the withheld niblet shipments will not accrue interest in corn or other compensation.

Cliff Green

NUTRACORN CORPORATION

Date: 9-8-1980

TO: Riker, Fat

FROM: Richards, Tom
Marketing Sub-Manager, Corn Derivatives Division

SUBJECT: Please Stop

Most gracious members of Fat Riker, I implore you to please stop this madness.

Your errant promotional tour has caused massive fluxuations of corn derivative perceptions both inside and outside of your target area and we are powerless to stop it. Your behavior has caused disturbances as far away as the highly coveted eastern Midwest regions as word has spread amongst the corn processing and distribution industry. Early rumors are already reaching me that Plinky and the Fish, our Ohio area promotional band, have also gone rogue upon hearing of your performances. Not since the failure of the Triple Action Corn Harvester has the industry been in so much turmoil.

I have spoken with Mr. Green, our Contract Enforcement Officer, and he has agreed to reinstate your corn niblet shipment upon completion of a single show from the official schedule. It is my understanding that Agent Phillips has abandoned the Nutracorn cause and joined Fat Riker. We hold no ill will against you for Agent Phillips’ actions, but you will need an untainted liaison for the remainder of the tour. Agent Anderson has disappeared into the wilds of eastern Tennessee during her search for you and we have not heard from her in some time. As such, we will be sending a fourth representative to act as your handler. He or she will meet you at your scheduled show on the 12^th in Chattanooga.

Please, please be there.

Tom Richards

***

Unknown Publication

Circa late 2003

Review of “Tartar Control, Tartar Control, Tartar Control”

Sweet readers, please allow me to paint you a picture of pleasant contentment. Past challenges were close enough to bask in the satisfaction of their completion, but enough removed that memories of their more difficult moments were smoothed to a dull edge. Likewise, future entanglements were but whispers of shadows on the distant horizon: problems for other days. Within the harsh, oppressive sands of the desert that is my writer’s soul, consider this fleeting moment of happiness a cool oasis.

Foremost upon my mind was a concert I had attended the night before. Upon my arm was a nubile young journalism student. After a happenstance meeting in Hot Topic where we were both buying the same arm socks, I had offered to escort her to that night’s Nigerian Princes show.  Dazzled as she was by my professional status and five-figure salary, she quickly agreed.

The concert was a rousing success; the Princes played an enlightened show that will go down as one of the venue’s finest.  After the performance, I went to congratulate them and managed to secure an exclusive interview with the band in the parking lot. Excited as they were after the performance, it is no surprise that the Princes were very energetic. As they answered my questions, they got a bit out of hand and beat the license plate off of my car with a traditional Nigerian Coleman lantern. I am pleased to say, however, that they quickly fixed it without my even asking. They really are a stand up bunch of gentlemen.

It is upon this halcyonic mindscape that a shadow suddenly fell.

Though the shadow was merely metaphorical (as the cheap fluorescent lighting in the office casts no noticeable shade) I felt as if the sun itself had been blocked off by some malevolent giant. Glancing upward, I saw none other than my wrathful editor. He grinned from ear to ear, the thick creases of his wrinkles outlining his vengeful pleasure at what he was about to do next. He pitched something onto my desk.

The padded mailer seemed to ring out like the blade of the guillotine as it slapped down on my desk.

I stared up at him with wide eyes, crestfallen and imploring. In response he merely wiggled three fingers at me, a subtle yet malicious reminder of the publication’s rule of a mandatory three listens to every album before writing a review.

I slowly leaned back into my chair and regarded the envelope over steepled fingers, willing it to hold anything besides what I knew it must. The stare down went on for five full minutes before I gave in and ripped it open. My shoulders drooped and I exhaled the most theatrical sigh I could summon.

Fat Riker, of course.

Their latest effort, if it could be called that, is entitled “Tartar Protection, Tartar Protection, Tartar Protection”. The cover that announces this is crafted of three taped-together pieces of toothpaste boxes. Did they make a unique cover for each individual copy of the album? Or do they, as I have long suspected, make but a single copy to send to me? I assume they must be mass produced somehow. The idea that these madmen, whom I have never seen nor met in person, labor constantly for my sole torture is far too much for my beleaguered heart to bear.

Sadly, there is nothing for it but to listen.

Track 1 – “Very Hungry” – 0:56

Fat Riker is hungry. Very hungry. It seems they are still not allowed to order a pizza after stealing the previous one. There is much grumbling and a clinking is heard in the background. I don’t know if the clinking is meant to be the melody, but it might be. It might also be someone rummaging through a refrigerator. A voice, one which I recognize as a primary vocalist for the band, suggests that they try ordering from a different pizza place. He is promptly kicked out of the band.

Track 2 – “Clink-o-Tronic” – 6:42

The clinking from the first track returns, this time in as the solo instrument in an excruciatingly long experimental piece. The noise has been sampled and some monster has somehow added a vibrating, robot-like effect to it. This crashes through the otherwise blissful silence in a distinctly amelodic way. From time to time, I fear the artist is trying to cover the “Airwolf” theme song and this somehow makes everything considerably worse.

Track 3 – “Shambles the Pony” – 1:52

Someone is concerned where Shambles the Pony has gone. They ask around but no one seems to know. I hear clinking in the background. Was this recorded at the same time as Track 2?

Track 4 – “Still Hungry” – 0:34

The lead singer is invited back to the band, but only if he brings pizza with him. He reluctantly agrees, but demands promotion to “lead lead singer”.

Track 5 – “Pizza Guy Freestyles” – 2:17

The newly instated lead lead singer calls the pizza place again to order pizza. They still won’t sell to him, but he convinces the pizza guy to freestyle a bit over the phone. It is blissful compared to the rest of the contents of the album. He employed a stunning refrain about marinara sauce that would make a grown man weep.

Track 6 – “Pizza Failure” – 3:19

The lead lead singer fails to get the pizza the rest of the band has demanded from him. Someone plays a listless drum solo in the background and the rest of the group tells him how much he has hurt them. Someone weeps. He is once again removed from the band.

Track 7 – “Shambles the Pony is Found” – 0:23

Shambles the pony has been found, but in an unexpected place. The track cuts out before I discover where.

Track 8 – “The Microphone Smells Bad (Brush Your Teeth Before Using the Microphone)” – 2:02

Someone finds the microphone to be an assault upon the senses. It smells bad, they yell! The rest of Fat Riker seemingly cannot be bothered to care. This ambivalence to oral hygiene enrages the first man, and he claims he will find some way to make them brush their teeth.

The thought of this smelly microphone makes me gag as I can only imagine the horrors that lurk inside the moist recesses of the mouths of Fat Riker. I silently wish our new dental activist the best of luck.

Track 9 – “Let’s All Play Randomly and See if it Matches Up” – 10:34

Oh my God, this track. This, for some reason, was the one that nearly got me. The band is tuning up (unsuccessfully) and someone suggests that they all just start playing randomly and see if it matches up and makes an actual song. Let me assure you, it did not.

The banjo player kicked off hard and fast, playing what I assume was a blistering rendition of the extended version of “Fat Riker Controls the Universe” from their previous “album”. The bass keytarist jumped off nearly as quick, though with a slow, doom metal beat I had a hard time placing. Someone was playing the clinking instrument from earlier, happily divorced from its synthy effects, though possibly still attempting to play the “Airwolf” theme. It’s hard to say.

The lead vocalist was apparently back again, and he began absolutely screaming into the microphone. This was no song, though. No attempt to rhyme words was made. In fact, after searching on the internet for the meanings to his lyrics, I have determined that he was most likely reading from a Comesticorp promotional pamphlet. I’m a bit discouraged by this as I got addicted to Comesticorp’s Cheese-Puff Flavored Cheese Style Dip Bowls back in college. I’m not sure I could live in a world where Fat Riker was selling me my favorite chip dip.

This cacophony of sound continues unabated for over ten minutes. No attempt is made to actually sync up the songs or restart. It is as if a tense showdown has started and no one dares blink. From time to time, I hear the whinny of what I can only assume is Shambles the Pony. Sadly, this is the most listenable noise on the track.

I would like to remind our readers that during the course of writing this review, I was forced to listen to this song three times. That is over thirty minutes of my life in total. I could have watched an entire episode of Airwolf in that time. (I think. Was Airwolf an hour or half-hour show?)

Track 10 – “Shambles the Pony is a Dick” – 2:12

Shambles the Pony has been looking at a member of the band weirdly. Said member is convinced that Shambles is making fun of him for not being a pony. Same member is further convinced that this proves that Shambles the Pony is prejudiced against non-ponies. Someone tries to calm him down by humming a partial refrain from “Let’s All Play Randomly and See if it Matches Up” but he is inconsolable.

Why is Fat Riker allowed to own an animal? I am worried for the safety of Shambles the Pony.

Track 11 – “Let’s Kill Shambles the Pony!” – 4:23

The enraged member from the previous track has become so cross at Shambles the Pony that he is now considering pony murder. Everyone else is distraught by this. The band decides to play a song to get their minds off of the problem, and the angry member suggests they name their new song “Let’s Kill Shambles the Pony!”

The group disagrees and decides to play something they call “Backwards Song”. It is a terrible song and sounds a little like a high school marching band falling one-by-one off of a cliff, only in reverse. I cry and laugh a little and feel bad for doing both. I hate these men and I hate this album.

Once again, the liner notes were bereft of a track listing, so each silent moment after this final song made my heart jump with terror that the album’s assault was not yet complete.  As the last desperate notes of the track fade away, so does my torture. I have, yet again, survived a Fat Riker album. I feel I must be better versed in their “musical” stylings than anyone else. It is not a thing that I am proud of.

If I must search for at least a single nice thing to say here, I will admit that this album will at least remind you to brush your teeth.

Also, please be nice to ponies.

Rating: 0.3/10

These letters are dated roughly a month after the emails in this entry.

—

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 18, 2005
Subject: Day 12, Embedded with Fat Riker

Good news Chief, we finally got all of the macaroni out of the alternator in the van! This means we can finally finish the last leg of the trip up to Cave City. We’ll be four days late for the gig at this point, but maybe the bar can work the guys in between some other bands or something.

These last few days in Pleasant Grove have been anything but pleasant. It’s been hell out here ever since I received that communiqué from corporate denying additional funds to make repairs to the van. I still think that was a mistake: this is a company van on company business. Yes, I realize the damage to the alternator was due to me allowing the band to cook dinner over the heat of the engine, but I still feel a bit abandoned. These guys work at Arby’s for goodness sake! I assumed they knew how to prepare a meal.

Anyway, things didn’t turn out too badly in the end because we were finally able to rope some locals into helping us tear the engine down to clean it out. The Davidson family was getting sick of the van being parked in the middle of their okra patch and sent their teenage nephew over to help us get it moving again. I think the kid’s taking shop in high school because he’s pretty good at this stuff. He was a big help when we had to flush all the cheese powder from the brake lines.

The band was thinking about adding him on as a roadie/technician/fry cook. Think the paper can foot the bill for a salary for this kid?

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 19, 2005
Subject: Day 13, Embedded with Fat Riker

As per the rather harsh emails from both the legal and accounting departments, we have decided not to hire Ricky Davidson and are pressing on without him. It may be for the best actually, the van’s speed seems to be topped off at roughly 27 miles per hour now. The band had asked the kid to try and make the engine more “cooking friendly” after the last disaster, and he seems to have retrofitted the radiator to accept vegetable oil. I think he may have assumed it would work as a deep fryer in a pinch, as it hisses and starts to smell like onion rings whenever we shift into second gear.

Anyway, the article is coming along pretty well. Will and I had a sit down this morning and I grilled him pretty hard on the show schedule and the band’s creative direction. He didn’t have a lot of hard info for me, but he’s a creative type so that doesn’t necessarily mean much. They’re pretty cagey in Fat Riker sometimes. Like when I ask them when they’re going to pay me back all the gas money they owe me. It’s always smoke and mirrors; games within games. Good stuff really. I can tell I’m dealing with professionals.

Anyway, we’re stuck just south of Batesville on the other side of the lake right now. It was a rough three hour drive with the van tooling along like it is, but I was hoping we’d make it a little farther today than we did.  Unfortunately, it turns out the band has a superstition about crossing bodies of water on Thursdays and won’t go on. We’re gonna camp out in Kennedy Park since it’s right next to the bridge and the band says the nearby trees are good for acoustics. Makes sense, I guess. I’m not a musician so I don’t really know.

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 20, 2005
Subject: Day 14, Embedded with Fat Riker

After finally getting across Lake Unico, we made a mad rush toward Cave City, with only a couple of small detours on the way. The guys tried to score some free Big Montanas from the local Arby’s (I don’t even think they make those anymore), but it didn’t work. Apparently the guys’ regional manager put the word out about them going AWOL from their shifts and put the nix on all free sandwiches for them within the state. Luckily, the sauce station guy was sympathetic to the cause and helped them sneak out a bag of frozen curly fries.

We stopped to cook them in the radiator/deep fryer and Will burned the crap out of his hand. Plus, the fries tasted weird and made me sleepy. Still, we fried them all up because there was no way they were going to stay frozen and we needed to do something with them. Careful not to get them in any vital engine components, we stashed them back in their bag and wedged them under the hood to keep them warm.

Afterward the engine kept overheating whenever we would get the van over 20 MPH. I think we probably missed a few fries and they were clogging up the coolant system here and there. The guys said that curly fries can get really gummy when they’re overcooked, so they might be stuck in there for good. I’m starting to wish we had brought Ricky along after all, this deep fryer is his baby and I feel like we’re flying blind without him along.

I was really hoping we’d make it to Cave City today, but with all the stops and the problems with the band, we only made it north of Batesville before having to pull over for the night. I was hoping we’d press on, but the van now constantly emanates a savory, deep fried smell and the band was worried we’d attract coyotes if we were outside of city limits at night.

We’re currently stopped outside the Western Sizzlin’ Steak House near the industrial park. I keep seeing signs for the University of Arkansas so I think that’s pretty close. I was hoping the guys might try and make it over there and try to rustle up a show for some college kids, but they don’t seem too interested. The double-stuffed loaded baked potatoes at the Western Sizzlin’ have their entire attention at the moment.

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 21, 2005
Subject: Day 15, Embedded with Fat Riker

It seems the concerns about the van attracting coyotes were not far off from the truth. During the middle of the night, we were awakened by the sounds of growling and chewing. It seems a pack of stray dogs had been attracted to the scent of our fryer and were attacking the engine viciously to get at its innards. Unfortunately, we had left the hood open to let the coolant system air out, which left us vulnerable to animals.

The pack seemed a wild and unruly bunch and we stayed safely hidden inside the van until they dispersed at sunup. When we got out to inspect the damage, it looked pretty bad. The radiator had been ripped out and dragged halfway across the parking lot. Various hoses and tubes hung out of the engine, each leaking rancid vegetable oil. Needless to say, the van would not crank.

I tried again to get the guys to try their luck at the university, but none were willing to carry their instruments the nearly one and a half miles to campus. So I don’t think they’ll be able to chip in for repairs.

I am including a requisition form for funds to repair the van. Surely a wild animal attack falls under our insurance’s “Act of God” clause. Apart from the deep fryer thing, I believe it was totally unavoidable.

Hey folks, it’s Dan-O from Fat Riker back to field some more of your questions. I hope to God you people managed to ask a question or two worth answering this time. I’d hate to have a repeat of last month’s column where I reposted the liner notes from our last album four times in a row rather than answer a single one of your inept inquiries.

“Dan-O, what are your inspirations?”

“Dan-O, what is the future of rock music?”

“Dan-O, can I bear your child?”

I get these same questions over and over as if I haven’t answered them all a hundred times before in a thousand different places. Just to satisfy your myopic question-asking urges, and hopefully prompt some streak of new inquisitive creativity, I will restate their answers again here: funnel cakes, funnel cakes and no sir.

Now, as you may imagine, the editor here at the Wichita Music Connection was less than pleased with last month’s column. I received a number of what I can only imagine were incendiary emails from him in the days that followed, which I promptly deleted without reading. I did this for two reasons:

Reason the first was that my obligations with Fat Riker keep me far too busy to read any emails not from Nigerian Princes. (The band Nigerian Princes, which we have an upcoming tour through Northern Oklahoma with. Real good guys. Helped me change the tire on my Range Rover once after they accidentally shot it out with a traditional Nigerian bow and arrow during a particularly intense set in Ponca City one night. Still, good guys.)

Reason the second is that he’s the editor of the Wichita Music Connection, which, as you must surely know if you are reading this, is distributed as a once-monthly insert in the Wichita Grocery Connection coupon flyer. There’s a sale on celery at Food Village! Also, Fat Riker is playing at Bella Luna Pita, where the editor of the Wichita Music Connection works part time.

My disdain for the readers, editor and this entire publication beside, I’m just pleased as punch to be able to answer the following questions.

(Note: I set aside exactly 20 minutes each month to write this column and, as always, I merely answer the first few questions to arrive in my inbox without attempting to edit for quality or substance. That’s a tough break for you, but it’s the only way I’m going to do this thing. Want to cry about it? There’s a coupon for tissues on page 3.)

Dear Dan-O,

I’m an aspiring musician and don’t have enough talented friends to start a band. How can I meet other likeminded people?

-Eric

Eric, your plight is tragic but not unique. Many young men and women hunger for a spotlight in which to warble their soulful tunes about breaking up with that one girl, or perhaps getting back together with that one girl only to break up with her again.

Well, it turns out no one wants to hear those sort of songs anyway. We already have songs like the one you’re going to perform and they’re plenty good. My advice is to give up, as meeting people is nigh impossible anyway. Sorry to shatter your dream kid-o, but I do have some good news for you.

If you haven’t cut out that coupon for tissues on page 3, it’s still there.

Dan-O,

Can we harness the gentle rhythm of the ocean to use as a bass track for a song? Do we have that kind of technology?

-Emily

Dear Emily, do you live in Wichita? I know you do, or else you wouldn’t be writing to me. Emily, sweet Emily, while the gentle rhythm of the ocean is easily harnessed by a number of consumer-level electronics, should you attempt to make music with it while living in Wichita? Dear, precious Emily, you should not. For you see, darling, squishy, salubrious Emily, you must make music for the area in which you live. And sadly, none here would appreciate your salty ocean songs.

Emily, my languid, ductile, gelatinous, yielding Emily, you must focus on making songs unique to Wichita. Capture the peaceful hiss of the fryer at Spangles Restaurant for your melody. The soft footfalls of the waitress at Bella Luna Pita, as they she tries to deliver delicious Greek wraps quietly so as to avoid catching the attention of the lecherous editor of the Wichita Music Connection as he lurks in the back room. Is that tzatziki sauce on his apron? We may only hope.

As an example, you may recall Fat Riker’s second most recent album, “Wichita is Still Terrible and I Wish We Could Leave but We Have Two More Months of Probation Left”, which as you may be aware is the much-anticipated follow-up to our third most recent album, “Wichita is Terrible and I Wish We Could Leave but We Got Three Months Probation for Vandalizing Bella Luna Pita and Trying to Blame it On the Editor of the Wichita Music Connection.”

Both albums perfectly encapsulate the very heart of Wichita, I believe. Corn rustles. A man screams. Stray dogs howl in the distance. Dreams shatter in crushing slow motion.

It is the purest of music.

Dan-O,

Can I be back in the band?

-Robert-O

Oh, Robert, you never quite manage to quit, do you? Robert, there are reasons you are no longer with Fat Riker. I was content to let those reasons remain private, buried in the storied past of this historical musical group. But you’ve played my hand, Robert. Now the whole world will know what caused your ejection from the most influential post-MIDIcore/Ghettotech hybrid band the greater Wichita era has seen in six months!
Robert, do you recall that one night in Bella Luna Pita? Do you recall it Robert? We were enjoying another complimentary bucket of pitas provided by none other than the editor of the struggling Wichita Music Connection.

Said editor, a sallow-faced young man in a stained Slayer shirt and reeking of Frebreeze (it was my professional opinion he used the stuff as a shower substitute) was petitioning our hallowed group yet again to provide an interview for his rag of a publication. As always, we were enjoying the pitas, but had no intentions of sullying the good name of Fat Riker by allowing ourselves to be featured between Grocery Warehouse coupons. I admit, I was perhaps light headed from the egregious amount of spiced lamb I had consumed that evening, or else I may have stopped you before you could make such a mess of things.

I can still see the cruelty shining in your eyes, Robert, as you announced that you would make the editor a bet. I cannot say I did not laugh along as you laid out your terms: a monthly column from us, for as long as we remained in town, if the editor could consume three of Bella Luna’s largest buckets of pitas.

It was an impossible task, and we all knew it. We laughed and chided, beholding the skinny man in front of us. We should have been trembling.

His eyes? Hard as diamonds.

These were the eyes of the hungry. The eyes of a man who knows he can rise up above his status if the right break would come along. This, dear Robert, was his chance.

The first bucket was empty in a breath. Impressed, we leaned back. Surely he would not finish another.

The second bucket took some amount of time longer. He began to hesitate as he bit into the third pita of the tub, shredded lettuce hanging from his chin. And yet he swallowed. And again. And again. Before long he was scraping the bottom of the bucket. Impossibly, he was now two thirds of the way there.

I have never heard Bella Luna so quiet as that night.

Now the manager was interested. I think someone was filming. Customers were watching. Did someone start playing the Rocky themesong in the background? I think they may have.

The third bucket landed in front of him, clanging against the table and sounding like the dropped scythe of the grim reaper. Slowly, mechanically, the first pita was grasped and brought to his mouth. Each bite was painful to watch. I dare not imagine being the one taking them.

Halfway through the bucket, he was reeling. He pitched this way and that in his seat, calling for death, calling for water and reciting his favorite, hallucinated Smurfs episodes.

The tzatziki sauce was surely invading his spinal column by now. When the bucket dropped to the floor, empty, so did he. The crowd had long since gone, driven away by the mad thoughts of a surfboarding Gargamel that he forced into their brains during his rantings. Laying there, curled around his chair, I briefly envied him. This was his moment. This was our defeat.

As I am certain you remember, Robert, you were immediately and forcibly ejected from Fat Riker. You were stripped of all titles and holdings and cast shivering into the uncaring world. Being a man of my word, when he emerged from his pita-coma three days later, I told the editor I would write the very column you now read. Of course, the burden fell on me as Hans speaks only German and Swahili and Greg speaks no language at all.

And that is why you cannot come back to Fat Riker.

Well, that and because you stole the “-O” affectation I put at the end of my name. You miserable little bastard.

I got all of those tapes distributed! Those copies of “Signals” came in useful after all; I just taped up the write protect tabs and recorded over that Canadian nonsense. Of course, our recording session didn’t quite fill up the whole tape, so there’s probably still some of the original album left on the end. I was thinking about filling in that time by looping “Backwards Song” in reverse to see if it sounded like anything intelligible like that. I couldn’t figure out how to make my boombox play in reverse and record at the same time, so I abandoned the plan.

Of course, missing another day’s work combined with Carlos demanding I rent a carpet steamer for him to use now meant that I was going to be running a bit thin on my finances this month. Not to mention the van was running on fumes and I had hopes of making it down to White Water to stir up some support at the University of Wisconsin. The fuel mileage on the van hasn’t been the same since I had to get it dredged up out of Gilbert Bay last summer after that incident at the dairy farm. Those 10 miles down US Highway 12 were looking pretty daunting, believe me.

I even called up Keith to see if he wanted to cut school and ride down there with me and maybe lend me a few bucks for gas, but his mom picked up the phone and yelled at me. I think he probably would have wanted to go if I had been able to get him on the horn, but it didn’t look like that was happening. I thought about riding down to the high school and hanging around out front until I spotted Keith but that seemed like it might take all day. No, I had to figure out something else.

Eventually I had a great idea – I took some of the Orange Julius signs down from in front of my apartment and used the last of my duct tape to stick them to the side of the van. I mixed up some of my knock off drinks in the kitchen, poured them into a big thermos jug and took a short drive down the road to the 7-11. I threw open the back door of the van and opened shop.

Even with it being cold, I was still able to move some Juliuses. I was doing pretty brisk business with some Canadian motorists that had pulled over to load up on gas and Funyuns but I saw a cop car pull by really slowly a couple of times and decided to close up shop. I cleared a little over fifteen bucks, not counting expenses, which was more than enough to get the van down to White Water. Plus, I still had like half a thermos full of Julius to drink on the way.

I gunned it down Highway 12, hoping to catch the record shop before the lunch rush, but I got turned around once I got into town and ended up circling some old empty K-Mart building for two hours before I found the right road.

Once I found the place, I was finally able to unload some of the tapes. The guy said they had a section for local bands, but seemed a little confused by the “Signals” cover art. I asked the guy to borrow a marker and I scratched out the old band name and title and wrote in our own.

After I had them all marked out, I realized I didn’t have an album name yet. I was feeling a little light headed from all the Orange Juliuses I drank on the way in and couldn’t think of a good name, so I just rewrote “Signals” back in.

The guy at the store said I could leave five copies with him and they’d “try to keep track of how many they sold”. The store gets an 80% cut on the merchandise sales, which I thought was pretty fair. We set the price for five dollars a tape so the band will basically get one dollar per sale. Carlos wrangled me into giving him a 50% cut up front on all merchandise sold, plus his regular share on the back end.

Still, not too shabby.

I went and tried to pass out a few copies on the college campus, but no one was particularly interested. I dumped the lion’s share of what I had left in the library’s return slot, so I hope they’ll just reshelf them with the rest of the audio/visual stuff and we’ll get some listens that way.

I coasted back into Fort Atkinson with the needle on “E” and the van actually ran out of gas about eight blocks from my house. I managed to roll the van into a fire lane before it stopped completely; it should be pretty safe there until I can come back for it in a couple of days when I get paid. For a little advertising, I threw a copy of the album into the tape deck and cranked it up as loud as it would go. It should loop until the battery dies. I left the remaining copies in a pile on the hood so people can take one if they like what they hear. Besides, I had to lug my Orange Julius signs and the thermos back by hand. I did not want to have to deal with carrying those tapes too.

Nov. 27, 1991

I called Keith over to tell him the good news about all the tapes being distributed. I also hoped we could practice a bit without Carlos since I couldn’t afford to pay him to come over this week.

I guess Carlos got to Keith, though, and Keith said he wanted to get paid too. This was bad, because I was broke after buying gas and that case of Funyuns. I probably shouldn’t have bought the chips, but after seeing those Canadians chowing down the other day, I had a wicked craving for them. Anyway, I didn’t have the money to pay Keith so I reimbursed him with some buy one get one free Orange Julius coupons I printed up on the old dot matrix printer at work.

This seemed to satisfy him, especially after I told him he could use the coupons at the actual Orange Julius at the mall. He really can’t, but by the time he figures that out, I hope we’ll have a new album close to being done and be pulling in some profits from “Signals” as well. Then I expect he’ll change his tune.

The practice session went pretty well, but Keith had to stop playing after two songs because he said he stomach was hurting. I’m a little worried that the Sunny D I’ve been using for the Orange Juliuses has went bad, but I’m hoping that’s not what made him sick. To save cash I usually buy a whole bunch of Sunny D when it’s on sale and pour all the jugs into this big ten gallon bucket I have to save space in the fridge. It works pretty well most of the time but I accidently left the bucket sitting out when I went driving around and it may have spoiled. That would be bad – I’ve probably got like 3 gallons of D left in there. I’m not sure I can absorb that kind of financial loss at this point.

Nov. 29, 1991

Carlos showed up today, completely unannounced. I hadn’t called for him, but he shouldered his way in and started cleaning the floors. When I asked him to stop because I couldn’t pay him, he just pretended like he couldn’t hear me over the vacuum.

I acted like I needed to use the bathroom and slipped out through the window in there. I thought I’d just stay gone for the rest of the day, and hope he would get bored of waiting on me to come back and pay him.

I decided to use the time to walk down the road and check how the freebies on the van hood were doing. It was a bit of a hike, but it was worth it – I think somebody had taken one! The van was gone too, probably towed, but they left the tapes in a pile on the sidewalk. I counted through them and I’m pretty sure one was missing. I didn’t remember how many I had left really, but I’m pretty sure the pile looked a tiny bit smaller. That’s a big win in my book!

Anyway, I waited a while and went back to the apartment. I was hoping Carlos was gone but it looked like he was still there and sounded like he had invited more people over. I listened outside the door for a while and heard voices and music, so I went back downstairs. It didn’t seem like he was going anywhere soon, so I went to a payphone and called the cops and told him that the guy in my apartment was running an unlicensed Orange Julius joint with rotten Sunny D.

The cops and the health department showed up fast and busted the party up. They took my Orange Julius signs when they left, and when I finally got back into the apartment I found that someone had re-kicked in my drums. I’ll probably have to go back to work if I’m going to afford more duct tape to patch them up.

We’re probably going to have to find a new lead singer since I bet Carlos is pretty mad at me now. I’ve kind of gotten used to having a really clean floor though so I may call up some of the maid services in town tomorrow and see if they have anybody that can pull double duty. It’ll just be easier that way.

The following is the first part of one of the longer series of journal entries inside the notebook. Consider the break an editorial decision on my part.

These events seem to occur almost immediately after those described in the article from the Milwuakee Arts & Times entitled “An Interview with Fat Riker”.

—

Nov. 9, 1991

How exciting! I would never have imagined that when I set out to make the drive from Fort Atkinson to Milwaukee this morning that I would end the day being in a band! Technically, I suppose it’s not quite the end of the day yet, but still! I can hardly contain myself! The Northridge Mall property auction sure held quite a surprise for me!

So I guess the name of the band is “Fat Riker”. For some reason or another that no one was comfortable discussing, the mall had gained control of the band and was now looking to turn a profit by selling it. Most of the locals seemed hesitant to bid on it, so I bid five dollars. The auctioneer tried for a long time to get someone else to bid more for the band, but after about 10 awkward minutes he gave up and let me have it. I think it was a bit less than the mall management was hoping to get because I saw real tears in their eyes when I won. I must have snagged myself a deal!

I bought a couple of other things over the course of the day but I couldn’t get my mind off of being in a band. It was like the thought wormed its way into my head and wouldn’t let go. I kept saying to myself, “I’m no longer Chris Guldan, CPA; now I’m Chris Guldan, band member!” That’s probably why I got all excited and bought that lot of 73 copies of Rush’s “Signal” album on tape. Whatever, they’ll make good stocking stuffers next month.

After the auction, as I was loading up my acquisitions into the van, I got my first good look at everything that came with my band purchase. First, I got this notebook that I’m writing in. It’s pretty cool, I guess. It kind of smells like Doritos and ammonia, but it looks solid otherwise. There’s a set of kicked in drums that I wasn’t sure was going to fit in the back, but I managed. Also, the mall people had a janitor come over and sing what he remembered of Fat Riker’s set list while they were based at the mall. I think I managed to digest the general idea of some of it. I had to give him a tip after he finished, though.

Anyway, after that, the only thing I had left to do was strap that pallet of unused Orange Julius paraphernalia I had bought to the roof and be on my way. The whole drive home I was thinking about getting this band going. I’ll write more soon!

Nov. 13, 1991

I’m not sure, but I think these kicked in drums may have been worth the price of the band alone! I fixed ‘em up with some duct tape and they work just fine. I don’t have any drumsticks, but wooden spoons are working great. Gives me a good, flat, thumpy sound – they kind of sound like they’re wet. I like that. I’m not good at keeping a beat but I think I’ll end up being the drummer since I’ve got some practice time in already. I was practicing so hard last night my downstairs neighbors kept knocking on my door, trying to get me to stop. They were saying stuff like “It’s Tuesday night! It’s 3 AM! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP!” but they should know they can’t stop the music.

Anyway, I called up the mall and got the number for that janitor that sang the old Fat Riker songs to me. The more I think about it, the more I like what he did with the tunes. He sort of drummed on his thighs during “Bleeper and the Sleeper’s” drum solo and I need to remember how that went. He also did a pretty sweet air guitar. I’m gonna see if he wants to join the band.

Turns out his name is Carlos. He’s married and got some kids but I convinced him to come over Saturday after his shift at the mall. He was a little confused and I had to lie to him and tell him I wanted to hire him to clean my floors. Good thing he works cheap, I think he’s expecting me to cover his gas mileage too.

PS: Not band related, but I may have to take down those Orange Julius signs I hung outside my apartment. I’m just a fan, but people in my building keep dropping in trying to buy drinks from me. It’s really interrupting my drumming time.

Nov. 17, 1991

The meet up with Carlos went okay. Floors got cleaned at least, and we had a good talk about the band. Well, I talked to him about the band. He mostly swept and mopped. But I think we were on the same page, you know?

I pulled out my cassette recorder and asked him to sing the Fat Riker songs again. He said it would be an extra fee, but it was worth it to me. I just need those songs! The tape turned out pretty good – you can usually hear the rustle of a broom or the splash of a mop in the background but I think he kind of tried to synch those up with the songs like 35-40% of the time. It worked out pretty good actually.

I don’t think he was too keen on joining the band but he said he would come back and clean my floors again if I wanted. I think we worked out a deal where he would clean the floors and I would pay him double to sit in after on a band session. I think once he gets a taste of Fat Riker’s hard rockin’, he’ll want to join up without being paid.

It’s going to cost me a lot at first though. I wonder if we could work out some kind of a deal? I wonder if he needs his taxes done or something? That would cover at least one hour of band practice I would imagine.

Nov. 19, 1991

So glad I didn’t take down those Orange Julius signs! One of the kids that stopped by today was carrying a guitar so I lied and told him that I would sell him a Julius. His name is Keith. I had him sit in the living room so I knew he’d notice my drums and went into the kitchen to try and make something he would think was an Orange Julius. I ended up throwing some Sunny D and frozen yogurt into the blender and I think it turned out pretty good.

He gave me two bucks for it and was about to leave but I asked him if he knew how to play the guitar. He didn’t really, he said he was just trying to pick up chicks by acting like Kurt Cobain. He could sort of get through “Smells Like Teen Spirit” but I imagine that’s probably a pretty difficult song. I think he would be on par with me at least, but not as good as Carlos. He said he’d have to ask his mom but I signed him on the spot.

I just hope he brings my cup back.

Nov. 23, 1991

I finally managed to get the whole band together for a practice this Saturday! Best of all, Keith is spreading the word that I actually DO sell Orange Juliuses and I’ve made enough money with that to pay Carlos’ outrageous floor cleaning/lead vocalist fees this week.

Since it’s pretty rare the whole band gets together, I put up some flyers around advertising that we were doing a show at my apartment and offered half off drinks to anybody that sat through the whole set. Those kids that are always building weird snowman dioramas out in front of the building showed up and they stayed probably at least half of the show. That wasn’t enough to get a drink discount but they bought a few anyway between songs.

Keith wasn’t happy that I invited people to watch since he’s really self conscious about how terrible he is at playing guitar. I just told him to sort of alternate freestyling and playing random parts of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and we’d try to follow along. We just gotta get the music out there. Perfection will follow.

Carlos was a champ about it, but I don’t know he fully understood what was going on. There can sometimes be a bit of a language barrier and my Spanish is not so good yet. He ended up charging me double since I hadn’t told him before time that anyone would be watching. I asked him if he’d clean the floor again after the show since someone in the audience had spilled their drink, but he refused. I guess I’ll just leave it until he comes back next week then.

I recorded the session on cassette so we could review it later. I’m halfway tempted to call in sick on Monday and spend the day making dupes and distributing them to record stores around town.

You know what? I’m not half tempted, I’m completely tempted. I’m doing it. I just hope they’ll believe I have chicken pox again.

Señors Rikers,

I recently received the following weekly report from our test market research team regarding Product #37956, “Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl”, to which your band provides promotional likeness rights.

Unfortunately, current approval for the product trends somewhere in the 12% range, and though we recognize your band’s history with our parent corporation, NutraCorn Corp, and are deeply committed to the success of “Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl”, we must inform you that the status of Product #37956 is being downgraded to Level 2. Pursuant to the terms of our contract, this changes your compensation from 1.3% of total profit to 1.18%. Additionally, the words “Fat Riker’s” size will be reduced by 19% on all packaging and 67% of the requested “sparkles” around the phrase will be removed.

Please review the forwarded comments from Comesticorp Field Agent Alice Fitzgerald, SN: 33459862. As your band members were the original creators of Product #37956, “Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl”, we are eager to hear any suggestions you may have regarding its improvement. Remember, all suggestions become the legal property of Comesticorp upon remittance and you may be held liable for any change in product status resulting from implementation of said suggestions.

Thank you,

Steve Overton
New Product Development Engineer IV
Ranch Division
Comesticorp

>FORWARDED MESSAGE ATTACHED

Mr. Overton,

We have processed the numbers for Week 5 of Product #37956 localized area testing in the greater Ogden, Utah metro area.

Sec. 1 – Introduction

Let me begin with a bit of good news. As requested, the testing team has kept a close watch on Subject #FR5667, who was admitted to the hospital during Week 4 of testing after consuming approximately 16 servings of Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl in one sitting. Though our lawyers felt that we could not be held legally responsible for her illness due to the distressingly large amount of the product she ingested, we are still happy to report she has been released from the hospital.

Comesticorp Legal Operative SN98556 Harvey was able to obtain copies of her medical charts, and while blood tests were completed by hospital staff, they did not include reference to the trace amounts of sciuridae polyethylene glycol (squirrel laxative) included in the product as a cost-cutting coagulation ingredient.

Though the legal team considers this a win, the sales team is distressed as Subject #FR5667 has cut her daily purchases of Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl by 83%. As she was one of the primary customers in the West Haven area, this has cut Test Sector 6’s overall product purchases by 5.3%. Marketing has been working overtime to maintain a Euclidian standard deviation of sales across Sectors 3 – 12 and this is going to be a major hurdle for them to overcome.

Sec. 2 – Public Reception

We have continued our aggressive public relations campaign from Week 4 to improve our reception by the populace. As you are well aware, negative public image spiked in Week 3 due to an unknown odor that began to emanate from the product. We had initially planned to spin this into a positive advertising campaign following procedures outlined in contingency plan Zeta 33. Unfortunately, roughly 94% of those surveyed indicated they found the odor to be between “foul” and “gnarly” on the Beckenheimer odor scale. Zeta 33 does include provisions for a retro-80s “gnarly cool” tag line, but survey results trended more toward “foul” than “gnarly” and Project Sub-Manager Richards decided not to implement it.

Part of this relations campaign included a study on the cause of the unwanted odor. While no specific cause was able to be determined with the slim budget allotted for improvement research, it was discovered that samples of Product #37956 removed from their inert, argon-filled storage warehouses would exhibit signs of the smell within three weeks. We were able to circumvent this undesirable product feature by removing any stock remaining on store shelves for more than three weeks. This unsold product was then donated to local homeless shelters, providing both a means to control the foul odors exuded by the product and a boost to public image with the appearance of philanthropy.

Marketing Team Bravo has posted encouraging numbers due to this plan, but Delta Team is not so certain. They remained focused on the problem mentioned in last week’s report, which I have included an expanded section for below.

Sec. 2.a – Homeless Product Proliferation

We have identified a unique trend among the homeless population of Ogden in regards to the odor contingency plan detailed above.

Due to nearly 37% of total Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowls being donated to local humanitarian aide shelters, it has been determined that each visitor to the centers receive on average, 17 packages of the product per day. This has lead to a supersaturation of the product within the uncoveted homeless demographic.

This would be a minor problem at best, but sample surveys now indicate that many people strongly associate Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl with homeless people. Heaps of the product may be easily seen filling rusty shopping carts that dot the vagrant camps within the city limits. While no immediate sales decline has been attributed directly to this association, Delta Team is petitioning strongly to counter this trend.

Currently, Research and Development Agent Smith has blocked all such plans as he has been studying the various uses the vagrants have discovered for Product #37956.

Most intriguingly, the product hardens into a supple but strong insulating shell when exposed to the atmosphere outside of its container for more than twenty minutes. This has lead to a trend known amongst the homeless as “ranching”, where an individual pours the product all over the body, then lies down to sleep for the night. The shell forms, keeping the individual warm throughout the night. In the morning, the subject merely has to claw his way out of the shell.

This has led to an abundance of human sized, ranch dip cocoons throughout the area, and a number of citizens have reported being disturbed at seeing unwashed vagrants ripping through the shells in public places. The local authorities have yet to make a connection between Product #37956 and the human cocoon remains, though we feel it is only a matter of time.

Sub-Manager Richards has sent extensive samples of the product to Comesticorp’s camping equipment division, so we may see a second launch of the Fat Riker’s Mariachi Flavor Ranch Dip Bowl if they can find some use for it.

Sec. 3 – Spokespeople Interaction

The troublesome issue of the antics of the band Fat Riker continue to plague our test launch. Somehow or another, the members continue to be aware of our plans before we can implement them, and insist on being present whenever possible. This usually ends, as I have previously reported, in well-publicized disasters that have kept most of Marketing Team Gamma busy with damage control.

How the band arrived in Ogden is a complete mystery, though a cursory glance at their tour schedule does include a stop in Brigham City, a mere stone’s throw from Ogden. It could be pure coincidence.

This week’s conflicts with the band include their third attempt to take up residence inside the second-floor supply cabinet. We initially felt that the release of Maintenance Employe #65991 Sanchez would solve the problem, as we felt he was sympathetic to Fat Riker due to their association with mariachi music. This was apparently not the case, as the band discovered that sub-par mounting screws had been installed on an outside vent grate. They were able to loosen the grate cover and the drummer was able to worm his way through and let the rest of the band into the building.

By the time it was discovered the band was once again inside headquarters, they had already set up a nest of instruments and empty ranch dip bowls and had begun practicing. This lead to a number of employees coming into contact with their music, resulting in a noticeable drop in productivity for the day.

Sec. 4 – Conclusion

Though Week 5 has seen a number of setbacks, we have also made significant gains in a variety of areas.

Launch numbers are within stress limits of a Level 2 product, and while this is lower than expected, our engineers are already hard at work reformulating the recipe to include the lower quality ingredients demanded by that designation. We expect less than a 9% change in flavor, though we may lose some of the insulating qualities listed above.

Alice Fitzgerald
New Product Test Launch Agent III
Ranch Division
Comesticorp

By: Emily Roseguard
Grade 5

Last Thursday our teacher Mrs. Mullins told our class that we would have a special band during lunchtime. Kids in 4th grade might remember this happened last year, too. Kids in 3rd grade won’t remember because they weren’t allowed to come. But it did happen. I don’t remember the name of last year’s band, but this year’s band was called “Fat Riker”.

I expected somebody fat and a boy in my class said we’d better eat fast or the fat band would eat our lunch but that wasn’t true. Actually, none of the members were fat! But I’ll get to that later.

At lunchtime we all lined up like usual but instead of a hot lunch in the cafeteria we went to the multipurpose room instead and the lunch ladies handed out a special bag lunch instead, like when we go on field trips. I guess kids that brought their lunch got to eat two lunches? I don’t know. Maybe that’s what Fat Riker was going to eat.

But like I said, none of the band was actually fat! I thought they looked pretty weird though: there was a girl that wore a really fancy dress like a princess might wear but it was all cut up with what looked like sword cuts. Also she carried a sword. There was also a guy that kind of dressed like a cowboy. Plus, two guys that were like, twins, I guess, but one wore his clothes backwards and one wore his clothes forwards and they would never face the same way at one time. It kind of made me dizzy to look at them because they would turn around so often.

I thought they were going to be on the stage, but they were just standing in the floor along with us. Mr. Ballantine, the principal, was arguing with the princess lady about having a sword but she seemed really mad and started cutting her hair with it and Mr. Ballantine made a weird face and went away.

I was sitting next to Tommy Adams, whose dad is a policeman, and he said that the reason the band was playing today was because they had to do “community service” because his dad and his cop friends had arrested them last week and this was their punishment for getting in trouble. Tommy said that Fat Riker had broken into the Food Country and locked themselves in the room with the PA system microphone. Then they started playing a bunch of weird songs about hats and wouldn’t come out even when the manager of the store knocked and told them to come out. Then the band told the manager they wouldn’t come out until he gave them all the Cheetos in the store, and the manager asked if off-brand Cheetos would work and they said no. Then the cops showed up and told the manager to tell the band he had all the Cheetos for them even though he didn’t and when the band opened the door to get them the policemen arrested them. They didn’t even let them finish their song about berets!

Then Tommy said that the judge wanted to teach Fat Riker a lesson about authority and also he didn’t want them staying in jail because the other inmates kept complaining that the cowboy guy smelled really weird like old sandwiches and they thought that maybe he was hiding poison gasses in his cowboy hat. Plus Fat Riker’s goat had escaped from their van in the impound lot and was going crazy and none of the police could stop him.

The band agreed to stop being too smelly in the jail and catch the goat if they were let go but they had to do community service by playing a concert for the kids. That’s why they came to our school.

Tommy said his dad said they caught the goat by opening up the doors to their van and making goat noises on an old oboe until the goat got sleepy and fell asleep. Then they picked up the goat and threw it in the van.

Everyone was expecting that they would drive away and leave but they just got in the van and stayed. The policemen asked them why they weren’t going anywhere and the band said they had to write some new songs to play for the schools and the impound lot had good acoustics or something. None of the police saw the goat when they opened the van door but Tommy’s dad thought they were probably keeping it in a big suitcase he saw in there.

The band stayed there for a week and sometimes people would see the sword princess going to the store for Cheetos or Kid Cuisines and stuff and sometimes other people would hear weird noises kind of like upside down songs being played in the impound lot and it scared them.

After a week the band said they had all of their songs ready and that they needed to play them within three days before they went stale whatever that means. The police said okay but mostly they just wanted them to leave the impound. So that’s when they came to our school.

So all of the kids had to come and listen. Our teachers told us to probably expect to hear some songs about not doing drugs and how math was really neat. Derek asked if there would be any songs about robots but the teacher said probably not and I think Derek was mad because he likes robots a lot. He has that robot shirt he wears sometimes and sometimes he says “Beep boop now consuming fuel.” in a robot voice whenever he eats lunch.

Fat Riker started making noises like they were tuning up their instruments so all the kids kept eating and talking. After a couple of minutes they stopped that and then the princess yelled “That was ‘Tune Up Song!’ Don’t talk during the next one!” and all the kids stopped talking. The teachers looked mad but Fat Riker started playing again really quick.

The next song was called “Grover Cleveland Has a Stupid Face” and it was supposed to be educational about Grover Cleveland. The band sounded really angry about Grover Cleveland being president and I think our history teacher, Mr. Price, tried to tell them that Grover Cleveland wasn’t the president anymore but the weird twin guys surrounded him and started spinning around and Mr. Price kind of slowly walked away. Then the band made up a lyric at the end of the song about Mr. Price that said that he “was a Grover Cleveland lover, and no one loves him but his mother.” That was pretty mean.

Then the Fat Riker stopped for about five minutes and stood perfectly still.

Everyone was beginning to wonder if they were okay or if they had passed out or something. Just as the guidance counselor started to go over there, the cowboy guy yelled “This next song is about robots!” and Derek jumped up and yelled “Yeah!” and they started playing.

I think the song was basically how to build a working robot and when Derek realized that he stopped dancing and started writing down the stuff they were saying really fast. There was a bunch of weird math stuff and somehow they rhymed “quadratic equation” with “siliconic sensation” but I don’t know how. The backward twins played dueling tambourines during this song and it kind of sounded like a hundred thousand tiny robots destroying humanity if you thought about it. This song went on for about twenty minutes and everyone’s ears started hurting but I think Derek got some good ideas. Afterward he told me he was going to build a robot with what he had learned and call it the Fat Riker Bot. He said it would have nine feet and sixteen eyes and a tape player.

I think Fat Riker was getting tired because the cowboy guy laid down on the ground and fell asleep after that and Sword Princess yelled they were about to do their last song. It started smelling like old sandwiches then and I wondered if it really was old sandwiches or if maybe the smell was coming from the cowboy hat like in Tommy’s story.

The last song was a little weirder and the twins brought the goat in from their van when it started. The goat heard it and started freaking out, running around in circles and a lot of the kids got scared. I tried really hard to figure out what the song was about, but sometimes they sang too fast and sometimes they sang too slow to tell. It was maybe about all the parts of a goat, like legs and teeth and stuff but maybe it wasn’t about that at all. It was probably very educational but I couldn’t figure out about what.

Then the goat got tired and laid down next to the sleeping cowboy guy and the rest of the band just suddenly stopped playing and went to sleep on the floor too. After a minute, the teachers decided that the show was over and they took all of us out of the multipurpose room and back to class.

Mrs. Mullins acted like it was really good and asked us questions about what we had learned, but no one had really learned anything except maybe how to build a robot. There was a PTA meeting that was held the next day and my parents said everybody was mad over the band. They asked if it had upset me. I told them it was probably a better lunch period than Taco Tuesdays.

The Fastest Band on the Planet

Jeffery Allen

Everyone already knows what happened last weekend at the Atomic Speedway. It was too big of a spectacle, too crazy of a story for the tale to have not been traded around over dinner tables and telephone wires.

“Were you there on Saturday?” Is how it starts – the asker always hoping for a “No” response so that they can enjoy the thrill of relating the tale.

Well, I was there, and I know what happened. The news version of this story ran on Sunday morning, on the top of the front page. We had to stop the presses to manage that one. But that was just the facts, and the facts hardly do this thing justice. Facts might as well be talking about how many beans are in a jar, or the radius of a circle.

No, this deserves to be remembered like the kings and heroes of old are remembered; with time and telling smoothing the edges until what is left resonates with the human soul on the most primal of levels. At the end of the tale, the listener’s heart should be filled with the pure, napalm-like desire to do great and awesome deeds. We, as a people, need these kinds of stories.

Lucky for us, Fat Riker has given us one.

As you might remember, word had gotten around about an event at the speedway. “Fastest band on the planet – Saturday only at the Atomic Speedway!” the ubiquitous fliers read. They were everywhere. On telephone poles, in mailboxes, stuffed under the windshield wipers of cars parked at Food City. There was talk. Radio DJs mused about it. You just did not not hear about this thing. I would wager there are still some flyers posted up out there, not yet grabbed by ruthless souvenir collectors.

The Atomic Speedway, for those unfamiliar with our local color, is a dirt track raceway a stone’s throw from Interstate 40. It sits like some kind of gross counterpoint to the bland consumer traffic of the highway; garish mechanical monsters rip through the valley, belching smoke and fire. These cars, if they can be called that, are cobbled together in basement garages. They are wrecked and rebuilt a hundred times a year. Spray painted bright green and orange and purple, they sometimes sport a number or crude slogan. You think that maybe, just maybe, they’re racing to win. The alternative, that they’re out there for the pure reckless thrill of it, is probably more true.

The News-Journal sent me down to cover this event, whatever it was going to be. My press credentials let me scoot on into the Speedway grounds, and I asked around for the band. A helpful concession vendor pointed me in the right direction after I bought a corndog. I needed to talk to these guys.

I found them tuning up next to a strange, cage-like contraption with wheels. I introduced myself as being from the newspaper. They introduced themselves as Fat Riker.

These four guys could not help but dominate the conversation. The mind focused on them in fear, as they spoke and moved erratically. Fast gestures like a rattlesnake striking. A yelp of approval. A slow shift in position until they’re next to you and you don’t even know it. Like a predator on the vast fields of ancient Earth, their actions caused one’s brain to bubble with chemicals that made us mere humans consider fight or flight.

These were wild, southern men that smell of cheap beer and car exhaust. They’re excited to be here, excited to talk to me, excited to play music and blow minds. Their plan was simple really; they’re going to become the world’s fastest band. They’re going to play music out there, racing around the track at 140 miles an hour. I didn’t know how they were going to do it. They wouldn’t tell me. It seemed like it had to have something to do with the cage device, but we would see.

They told me, over the cacophony of the race behind us and through drags of cigarettes, that they have been on tour. They told me that one night in Alabama, after a show, some drunk guy attacked them with a shovel outside a bar. They told me they killed him and dumped him in the swamp. I was inclined to believe them.

They told me, in not so many words, but definitely in a round-about way, that the society was boring and they didn’t fit into it. They told me a lot of things, and I listened to them. They had hidden wisdom, and I could not help but be enraptured.

A gaggle of girls in tiny cut-off shorts showed up and distracted the guys, and I took my leave. I headed back to the stands to get a good view of whatever was going to happen next. The muggy summer night took on an unnatural air of electricity as the crowd buzzed. Meanwhile, the cars continued to speed around the track. This was no easy wait.

Eventually, the PA crackled to life, announcing it was time for Fat Riker to appear. The enthusiastic crowd let up a wild cheer. I hadn’t seen the band for nearly an hour now, and I wondered what they’d been up to.

The audience’s attention was drawn to the left side of the arena, as an impressive black race car rumbled onto the track, the rolling cage hitched behind it. Fat Riker had set up inside the cage. The car came to a reluctant stop as an audio technician dashed out of the infield with the end of a long wire, which he hooked up to the cage.

As he made the connection, the speedway speakers screeched and suddenly we heard the voice of Fat Riker’s lead singer booming. “We are Fat Riker!” he yelled, and the crowd yelled back. “We are here to be the fastest band in the world. Hit it!”

The technician dove away from the cage as the car jerked forward, engine roaring. The band immediately tumbled to the back of their cart, but in a moment managed to right themselves. The drummer counted them in and music, good music, erupted from the PA.

The crowd went wild and so did I. The car ripped around the track, the cage fishtailing behind it dangerously, the band somehow playing their songs. Through our frenzy, through their madness, we find some deep part of the human soul that binds us all together. I wish I could have looked into the band’s eyes during that moment. I think I would have seen God.

Then came the terrible sound. A sort of plink, or maybe a plunk. It was low and not easily heard over the din. It sounded like metal on metal. A sword clanging against a shield, or maybe the grim reaper’s scythe cutting a cart latch. I don’t know how many people noticed. I’m pretty sure the band didn’t.

The briefest of moments later, the cage’s fishtailing grew exceedingly severe. To their credit, the band did not miss a beat, not even when their cart broke free of the car and careened toward the edge of the track. The audio cable snapped and the speakers went quiet as the cart jumped the raised embankment and flipped, rolling and tumbling across the field, past the perimeter of the stadium’s lights. The gut-wrenching sounds of the wreck echoed off the East Tennessee hills, the metal cage collapsing and breaking in our collective mind’s eye.

There was a brief moment when none of us could move. Then chaos. There was screaming and running and terror. Some flee for the parking lot. Others rushed toward where they imagine the band to be. The reporter in me did not allow me to run away. I joined the minority of people who ran to the crash site.

It was a mess. Lives and instruments had been lost. Two of the men were miraculously alive, though only one was responding at all. My foot hit something hard, and I looked down, realizing in disgust that I was standing on the remains of a guitar. I moved quickly.

There was fast and furious work as band members were extracted from the carnage, the living separated from those sacrificed for our shared moments of animalistic ecstasy.

As the first-response paramedics began to take away the only conscious member of Fat Riker, I see that he is smiling. A big, bloody, missing-toothed smile. Our eyes locked and I smiled back at him.

“Rock on,” I thought I heard him say.

—

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 13, 2005
Subject: Show on April 16

Fred,

Listen we’ve all managed to get the 16^th off so we need to schedule our show for that day.  Preferably at 8pm so when we’re done some of the other bars in town are still open and we can tie one on, you know?  Also, Keith’s van is in the shop since he ran over that horse, so you’re going to have to provide the amps because they won’t fit in my Camry.

-Will Pearl
Fat Riker

From: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
To: fatriker@gmail.com
April 13, 2005
Subject: Re: Show on April 16

What?  Who is this?

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 13, 2005
Subject: Re: Re: Show on April 16

Don’t you even play like that Fred.  This is Will from friggin Fat Riker OK.  Me and a couple of the guys and my ex-girlfriend (now, not at the time) talked to you after that Cracker show two years ago and you said if we ever got a band going we should come and play.
WELL we finally got this band that Keith bought on Ebay and now we’re ready to rock.  You’re our first show ever so I would kind of expect you’d be proud since we’re on the road to stardom.  You should totally hear us, we sound like Hootie and the Blowfish if the blowfish were TIGER SHARKS and Hootie was “Hooters”.  So basically, Hooters and the Tiger Sharks.  That’s Fat Riker in a nut shell.
Boom.

-Will Pearl
FAT RIKER

From: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
To: fatriker@gmail.com
April 13, 2005
Subject: Re: Re: Re:  Show on April 16

Will I’m sorry but I have no idea who you or Fat Riker are.  We keep a busy stage here and this Saturday has been booked for weeks.  How about this?  How about you send me over a few sample MP3s and I’ll listen and we can try and get you as an opener or something in June?

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 14, 2005
Subject: Don’t even

ON NO FRED HOW ABOUT THIS ONE

1) We show up on April 16

2) WE PLAY LIKE SMOKEY BEAR EATING SMOKED SALMON WHILE WATCHING SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT

3) You pay us the $750 to get Keith’s van fixed

You’ll be thanking us and begging us to come back.

PS: Seriously it has to be on the 16^th.

PPS: When you put bands up in hotels for the night what kind of per diem on room services are we looking at??

From: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
To: fatriker@gmail.com
April 14, 2005
Subject: Re: Don’t even

Just so you know, I printed that last one off and we passed it around the bar and all had a good laugh.  Seriously.  There were tears of laughter.
Not that it matters, but please enlighten me as to the contents of your $750 show.  If there aren’t laser donkeys I will be sorely disappointed.

PS: Why does it have to be the 16^th?  Because now I just HAVE to know.

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 14, 2005
Subject: Re: Re: Don’t even

It has to be the 16^th because we already got the day off from work I said! We all four work at the Canton Arby’s so we’re basically like the entire second shift.  It took a lot of work to get everybody off that one day and Tyler couldn’t even get the day off since he called in two weeks ago so he could stay at home and play video games all day.  Don’t worry, he’s just gonna call in again and claim he’s got the flu.  It’s cool, he’s been fake-coughing for about three days now so I think the Asst. Manager will believe him.
But the show goes like this:
Lights go down.  Fog machine kicks in (I hope you have a fog machine) and a garbled voice comes across the amps.  Eventually you can make it out:
“It is the year 2005! THE FUTURE WAS FIVE YEARS AGO.  Now there is only….THE PAST!”
Little theater of mind going on there.  Anyway, it’s the past now yeah?  This is perfect, because what we’re doing for the music is we’re just gonna play an old Fat Riker album and lip synch along to it.  This is because we don’t have any songs memorized yet.  If you keep the fog machine rolling pretty hard the whole show, people shouldn’t notice that our mouths don’t match the words.
We’ll just let that play through and then afterward you can bring down the house lights and throw some lights on us and Keith wants to do some freestyle soloing on the drums for about 15 and then we’ll split.  You’ll be the talk of Little Rock dude, I guarantee it.

PS: LASER DONKEYS ARENT REAL

From: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
To: fatriker@gmail.com
April 15, 2005
Subject: Wow

There are no words.

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 15, 2005
Subject: Re: Wow

Well Tyler’s out.  Turns out the Asst. Manager got scheduled on Sunday instead of Saturday and now the friggin GM is gonna be in on the 16^th instead.  That dude is one tough hombre.  Got a moustache that you could sweep the men’s room with and a list of ex-wives that are always trying to score free Big Montana sandwiches.  I don’t even think we make those anymore.  He doesn’t fall for any of our crap.  One time Tyler was 15 minutes late and the GM made him wax his car after his shift was over.  I mean who does that?
Anyway, we’re still on without Ty but I’ve got a few more requests me and the boys dreamed up.

1) We need a box of Fruit Loops separated out into individual colors and left in bowls in the green room.  We will also need an assistant on hand to remix them should we desire.

2) The audience should be made aware we may decide to remove our pants during the performance.  This helps us to “create”.  (As you know, it is going to be a lipsynched show so there will be no “creating” going on, but we felt we should practice this maneuver for the future.)

3) We get 50% of the bar take for the night.  This is on top of our regular fee, the ticket sales and the hotel room. Sucks for you, but that’s the price you pay for Fat Riker quality.

4) No one can get into the bar named “Karen” because that’s my bitch ex’s name and she might come and start some stuff.  I still owe her like $200 in Everquest monthly fees from a couple years back so she might catch wind of this and show up.  Anyway, it’s not my fault she didn’t notice I had used her credit card for a year and a half.

See you tomorrow!

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 15, 2005
Subject: HEY

Been like six hours with no reply.  Gig’s tomorrow dude, hope you got that last email and all our demands.  If those Fruit Loops aren’t there I’m gonna be wretched mad.

-WILL
FAT RIKER (WHO IS PLAYING TOMORROW)

From: fatriker@gmail.com
To: fred.angler@messengersbar.com
April 16, 2005
Subject: Cocks

Gig’s off dude.  Some jack hole ordered onion petals instead of curly fries and I burned the shit out of my hand on the fry machine making them.