The More Mundane Adventures of Blue Stahli: Episode IV

Moscow. 2 AM. Approximately freeze-your-nuts-off below zero outside.

Me: Safely bundled up in the back of a car.

And by “back of a car” I mean “trunk.” And by “safely bundled up” I mean “tied up.”

Yes,  that’s right. I have been in Russia less than forty-eight hours, and have already gotten myself into a pile so deep and steamy that I might not emerge. How, you might ask?

I’ll tell you how:

I’m me.

Let’s back up a bit.

My first two gigs as member numero dos of the Celldweller live show went off deliciously. As is proper for all rockstar roadtrips there were inappropriate hijinx, mistaken identities, (ask Klayton about ‘meeting Simon Pegg’) LOTS of time in a van and terrifying slices of Americana served at each town we passed through. Some of these I documented for you, some are safely kept quiet. (Except the Simon Pegg incident. I guess I just mentioned that one.) The fans were totally awesome at both shows. After DragonCon we returned to Chez Celldweller exhausted but stoked for the next leg of the tour. I alternated between brutalizing audio for our extended live show and working on the solo album, burning many, many hours on both.

During the months up to and after the live shows I hadn’t heard a thing from my”special friends.” That’s what I call the consortium of scientists and financial elite I tangled with accidentally. (Again, because I’m me.) They didn’t take kindly to me setting one of their escaped science projects on fire so they sent a walking eating factory after me. When that didn’t work they offered me a truce. But I, (again, being me) didn’t take it because something about it smelled fishy. Instead, I told them to sign me up, and they did. (Which was a double helping of ‘what the fuck?’) Since then I’ve been left with the question”What about me is so important they want to keep me around?”

I don’t know the answer, and I’m not sure I want to find out.

I try not to think about it, which is why when my phone rang two days before we left for the Russian shows I answered without looking at who was calling.

“Mister Stahli? My name is Injin. We have a mutual acquaintance, Ben. Do you remember him? The bones in his hand have healed nicely. He’d like to see you again, but I have assigned him elsewhere… for now.”

I decide to shoot for a diplomatic response.

“Well hi there Injun. Are you Navajo or Apache?”

“Ah yes, the famed Stahli humor. Ben mentioned this as well. We have a package we need you to deliver in Moscow during your trip. It will be arriving soon containing both delivery instructions and the item itself. Do you have any questions?”

I can think of about a zillion. (Like ‘how the hell am I going to get through customs with a crab-dog-parakeet in my carry on?’)

“You still haven’t told me what tribe you’re from.”

“I am not a native american.” This guy’s voice barely changes tone. He sounds like a high rez speak-n-spell.”The item you will be delivering is both harmless and safely disguised. While you will undoubtedly try to ascertain its contents I assure you you will be unable to. Place it in with your laptop and other performance gear, and you will have no issues with customs. Any other questions?”

“How do I get out of this chicken-shit outfit?”

I hear a bit of a smile creep into his voice.”Very good Mister Stahli. I too am a fan of mister Cameron’s films. Let me assure you if you attempt to compromise us or fail to make this very simple delivery I will take great pleasure in dispatching Ben to bring you in to one of our facilities. We can always use new volunteers.”

“Hold on there, Injun. I thought we were all on the same team here.”

“Its I-N-J-I-N, Mister Stahli. I am not from a fifties western. And while some of us think you are intensely valuable, others feel less so. Be watching for your package, it should arrive today.”

He hung up without saying goodbye, which was fine by me. I’d gotten what I wanted:

Under his skin.

Straight out of the Matrix, the doorbell rang. It was the FedEx guy, holding out a package in one hand and a digital signature pad in the other.

“Delivery. Sign here please.”

“Sure thing.” I took the stylus from him and signed ‘Funkzilla.’

“Thanks. Last name?”

“Uh… Zilla. Z-I-L-L-A.”

“Great. Thanks.”

He turned on his heel and left.

The box wasn’t very big; only the size of a few stacked DVD cases. I held it to my ear to listen for ticking (or vibrating, thank you Fight Club) but didn’t hear anything so I cracked it open. Inside was an extremely normal-looking USB hard drive, the smaller portable self-powered kind, and a note which read”Ivan Kurskok” with what I took to be a crazy Russian telephone number. I plugged the hard drive into my laptop but it came back as empty. One of my hacker friends could probably get a better read on what was hiding on it but there was no way I could get it to them to ghost and back in time for our flight. So I threw it into the laptop bag with the note and got back to packing.

Injin had told me something else, maybe without meaning to: opinion was divided in their ranks when it came to me. I didn’t know what that meant, good or bad, but it was one more piece of the puzzle. The way he talked it didn’t seem like he was one of my fans. Which might mean one of his higher-ups was batting for me. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

For a trans-Atlantic flight our trip was suspiciously without incident, considering it was me in an enclosed space with strangers for an extended period of time. That alone should have made me nervous, but I was too preoccupied with the show preparations to notice at the time. We hit St. Petersburg like a chainsaw and tore them new earholes. It was awesome. I couldn’t understand a word of their crazy moon language, but I tried to throw a lot of ‘comrade’s’ in when I talked to fans after the show to smooth the communication barrier. After the show we climbed onto the train.

I woke up the next morning in Moscow.

I’d packed for cold weather, but I also grew up in Arizona where”cold weather” evidentially means something different. We were headlining the venue, so we started setup that morning and worked until mid-day. We had scheduled some time to get in some touristy stuff in before the show, so I used that as my excuse to get away. I called the number from the venue’s phone. Someone picked up.

“Da?”

“Hi there, I’ve got a special delivery from Injin for you.”

“You are courier?” the voice asked. Sounded like he had gargled with broken glass.

“If you say so.”

“Tell cab driver to take you (he said some crazy Russian address here I’m not even gonna try to spell it.) Seven o’clock. I meet you there.”

“Groovy,” I replied, but he had already hung up. Friendly one.

I had got a cab and told the driver my best approximation of the address. He looked at me funny, but I couldn’t decide if it was because I was American or if I was asking to be driven to a potentially dangerous part of town. When he stopped I had my answer: it was the second one.

Everything was a shade of dark gray. The walls of derelict warehouses were gray. The street was a darker gray. Even the light coming from the few flickering streetlights seemed muddled.

It seemed like the kind of neighborhood the mob might have a place to store dead bodies for”processing.”

A black European something (I don’t know cars) pulled up and snapped its headlights off. A fat dude with black greasy hair and a trimmed gray beard got out of the passenger side (or was it the drivers side? Are the cars backwards here like they are in Asia?)

“You are courier?” he asked.

Clearly ESL.

“That’s me. Call me Mister McFeely.”

“You have package?”

I nodded and pulled the drive out of my coat and handed it to him.

“Good. Injin said…”

He trailed off as a door behind me to one of the warehouses opened. I’m guessing his train of thought was interrupted at seeing the six-foot-seven dude in silver sequined heels, a slinky red miniskirt, and a myriad of dead animals (is that what passes for a fur coat here?) strut out.

Or it might have been the big-ass sawed-off shotgun the dude was carrying.

“Did you think I would not find you Ivan? Did you think you could hurt Marco and get away with it?”

The greasy dude started to reply, I think, but he was already splattering against the wall. The tranny pumped three more rounds into him as he slid down the wall and then turned to regard me, shotgun resting casually at his hip.

“And who are you?” he / it asked.

I used to play in a band with a bunch of trannys. And the number one thing learned during that short period of my life was this:

Never piss off a queen.

“Me? I’m Bret. I’m in a band.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes.

So I pointed to the pink in my hair.

“See?” I asked him.

“What do you do with this swine?”

“Delivery boy. I was supposed to bring him something.”

“What?” he held the shotgun steady on me. I tried to ignore it.

“A little hard drive.”

I looked over to Ivan’s body. The USB hard drive (and his hand) had caught one of the shotgun blasts as he fell. Little black plastic splinters were all that was left. I pointed to it.

“See that black stuff? That.”

The tranny glanced over at Ivan’s body for a second and then back to me.

“What was on it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just the delivery boy. I didn’t look.”

He looked at me for a second, sizing me up.

“You are American?”

I nodded an affirmative

“Good. You will help me.”

I checked my watch. Two hours until showtime.

“Actually, I need to be getting back if we’re done h…”

He slammed back the pump-action on the shotgun. I heard it load another shell.

“Right. I’ll help you. What are we doing?”

“Turn around.”

He lowered the shotgun and I saw him pull some cable ties from the back of his belt as I turned.

So here I am, shoved in the back of dead Ivan’s car being carted around the back roads of Moscow by a Russian transvestite. All in all I should have expected something like this; the plane ride was way too tame.

Sometimes the universe saves it up for me like this.

We come to an abrupt stop and I smash against the backing of the rear seats. The car shuts off and I hear a door open and close. Then the trunk pops open and the tranny is standing there, silhouetted by a streetlight overhead.

“Get out. You come with me.” He (It? She? Roll of the dice…) tells me.

I hold my cable-tied hands up towards he/she/it.

“Tough to climb out like this.”

Without a word he/she/it flicks a knifeblade out of… somewhere… and pops the cabletie from my wrists.

“Heeeey, you’re pretty quick with that!” I tell he/she/it, rubbing my wrists to try and get some blood back to my hands.

He/she/it grunts and motions with the shotgun towards a run down apartment building.

“Inside. Up stairs.”

If I didn’t know better I’d swear it was the piece of shit building RF lived in in Blade Runner, minus, you know, all the radness. The floor and walls are streaked somewhere between brown and black. I don’t know if its mold or smoke damage. I can feel the staircase sway (in addition to popping and creaking) with every step. At our fifth flight the tranny puts he/she/it’s hand on my shoulder and turns me down a hallway with rat eaten carpet. We pass eight or nine doors before we come to the one he/she/it wants. The tranny hefts the shotgun under he/she/it’s armpit and digs around in he/she/it’s clutch and fishes out a set of keys. He/she/it sticks almost has the keys to the lock when he/she/it pauses.

“You run, I shoot you,” the tranny says over he/she/it’s shoulder.

“Got it.”

With that the key slides in the door, snaps back the deadbolt, and we’re inside.

Normally I would think the stupid looking guy-in-a-bear-suit singing in Russian on the television was funny. But there was something more distracting in the room with us. A six foot seven black dude with a shaved head, probably 275 in muscle, and was wearing a skintight hot pink latex strapless dress and matching pink pumps. He/she/it was eating some kind of cereal out of a mixing bowl looking over the shoulder of a pasty white tranny with platinum blond shoulder-length hair at the computer as the pasty one was typing away furiously. Both were chattering away in their moon language but they stopped when they saw me come in with my new friend. The pasty one spun around in he/she/it’s chair and stood up, jabbering something in Russian to my buddy who shot something right back. The black one took another bite of cereal, not taking he/she/it’s eyes off me. I figured I’d better break the ice. I pointed to he/she/it’s shoes.

“THOSE…” I paused for effect, “are some really nice shoes.”

The black tranny set the bowl down on the computer desk and drug the back of he/she/it’s forearm across he/she/it’s mouth to wipe away the excess milk.

“You are American?”

The pasty queen is done talking to my new friend and has locked onto me.

“Im guessing you guys are thinking I’m American, huh?”

“We need American help,” the pasty one says, “with website.” he/she/it points to she screen. “How do you say….uh….” he/she/it makes some cupping sweeping motions in front of he/she/it’s chest “big….uh…..”

“Big titted?”

The pasty one snaps he/she/it’s fingers and looks to the other two in obvious relief. The black one nods gratefully and my buddy motions with the shotgun toward the computer.

“You type.”

“Oooooooookay.”

The pasty one moves from the dirty computer chair and I assume the position. A couple of keystrokes later I’m looking over my shoulder.

“What else?”

“Uh….. Long…….long….”

The tranny makes a downward pulling motion away from he/she/it’s crotch.

“Huge cock?”

The pasty one nods vigorously and the black one claps quickly and squeals a little bit. Even the one with the shotgun is smiling.

“Anything else?”

“Ah,” the pasty one leans over me and switches through a couple windows and repositions the cursor.

“How you say,” he/she/it motions to the other two, “good price for American?”

I think about that one. Somehow my brain has been damaged enough that it dawns on me what’s going on here.

“You guys want an American to pay to fly you over? Mail-order bride style?”

Nail on the head. All of them are nodding like puppies watching a laser pointer.

I weave my fingers together and crack my knuckles.

It takes me about twenty minutes, but eventually I get all the descriptors down in English that they’re looking for. In retrospect it’s rather horrifying that I was able to pick up so quick on some of the hand gestures they were making.

When I finish the one with the shotgun takes me back downstairs and drives me all the way to the venue. I’m inside 5 minutes before soundcheck. A few hours after that we annihilate Moscow.

I don’t hear from Injin until I’m back in the states. He calls me from a different number so I don’t recognize it. Sneaky.

“Mister Stahli? Injin here.”

“Hi Injin. How was the sweat lodge?”

I hear him sigh heavily. It’s a beautiful sound.

“Did you make the delivery as I asked, Mister Stahli?”

So he hadn’t heard. This might get awkward.

“About that. I gave Ivan the drive like you asked, but someone wasted him. A tranny in a red skirt took him out with a shotgun.”

Injin doesn’t seem fazed. “It is of no matter. The drive was blank anyway, and Ivan’s… indiscretions… were bound to catch up with him sooner or later. What is most important is that you proved  yourself a proper delivery mule.”

“So this thing was all some kind of test?”

“Not some kind, Mister Stahli. It WAS a test. And you passed. You’ll be hearing from us again soon.”

It’s hard not to spike my phone off the concrete when he hangs up.